MASTERS OF ILLUSION - Back Up Kid lyrics

rate me

The electricity shall now be passed through your body

until you are dead [sounds of an electric chair]

[Chorus: Kool Keith]

Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power watts

Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power

Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power watts

Back up kid, 40 billion hundred power

[Kool Keith]

You on my pubic, I tell you kid, that's on my testicles

I slice that style up like big {?} and vegetables

You know I'm legend though you clown man stiff and blow

I got the big stage, no props for yo' small show

I light your anus up, pee upon your whole spectrum

Then damage all butt with missiles to your girl's rectum

No matter how where, with activator on your hair

You could be weaved up, toes to your sleeve up

ADAT's work you got static, turn your Nieve up

You on 4-track, tic-tac, I still wipe buttcrack

Battle me now your cornflake style, chocolate cow

You no test catnip slop runnin down your vest

Master of what, your kitty styles fall butt

Incest, you settle for less

Yo lick my wee-wee, your sister tried to watch me pee-pee

On New Year's, panties down, drunk drinkin beers

You get asked up, records get faxed up

Your booty get torn your heiny's all waxed up

[Chorus x2]

[Kool Keith]

I see MC's waste time and vinyl, your point is final

You trapped in the cage and now pregnant by a green rhino

Lubriderm is 'pon the cage it's still Octagon

Your girl in tights, panties made of chiffon

Like Ted Bundy and Kemper, I burn your wig this winter

No matter how hard you are, I still paint that back

Then draw some pictures of Space Ghost on yo' asscrack

With Scooby Doo, Fred and Wilma watchin Dino doo-doo

Your style is no flake, them beige boots are kinda weak

You suck nuts and lick my balls everytime I speak

You at the Apollo, you wack easy act to follow

You get no props, for skirts suckin Charms pops

You on my penis, still wearin shell-toe Adidas

I'm in your building, like paint chips off your ceiling

Fake face, yo pack up, start watchin Scarface

I strike your tour bus, catch you naked smokin dust

Rip your papers at halftime, your rented rhymes are rust

You got no wins, for crabs in your used Benz

Extra mic stands for Taco Bell burns yo' friends

Louisiana hot sauce, tops your anus boss

Gorilla Magilla, he's in the window

Your style is for sale, sperm drippin off your pillow

[Chorus x2]

["back" - scratched before end]