Be Your Dog

Yeah!

It’s Megadef

What you know about Cheapshot?!

What you know about Tak?!

What you know about Ryu, Faggot?!

What you know about Vin Scully?!

Another half-ass, hit out now

We used to chill, ‘til that motherfucker bit our style

It’s kinda funny how, You and your friends are small town

Act like you got something, big to draw down, silly

Probably confused, sobered up to shine

So when you rhyme, you sound like both of us combined

And don’t act like you don’t know

You in a crew, couldn’t hold it down solo

You full of poop so I’mma scoop the feces, put it in a Pamper (Uh)

Let it drag, any time you call out won’t answer

Punk, get a cab and a robbery

You a little kitten that shouldn’t have climbed a tree

Now you stuck with the truth ‘til we dig up the bones

I feel pregnant--birth to my musical clones

So for nine months, the pack rats watch them grow

With your backpack, clown, you sound sloppy though

Now I wanna be your dog

Now I wanna be your dog

Now I wanna be your dog

Now I wanna be your dog

(Listen up, faggots)

Knock, knock come off the damn platinum

Stand back, drop the plaque, “Pop, pop!”

So cock the magnum, “Rock, rock”

Blow shots off at random, Ryu and Tak

And we don’t stop the anthem

Give my flow back

Lo-Jack, phone-tap, punk the Pink Panther

Give me a soul clap, “Click, clack!”

Rip that, snap necks quicker than Kit-Kats

Knick knack, patty wack pistol grip pump the jams up

Wild West SOB’ shit’s bonanza

Who the fuck wants it, spit guitar picks

Slit your neck with a Bic razor across it

Knock the bitch lead singer unconscious

No pets, so don’t step watch the dog shit

Signed a bad deal, with a weak video

Maybe if I had skill I wouldn’t need serial

And we ain’t have to pay anybody for shit

Especially to play me, like I’m some kind of a bitch

And every other day people want to swallow and spit

Like a plunger, to sludge in abdominal kits

And the promoters with their fat heads

You and your chick friends (Uh)

You don’t even know what rap is--you tripping

Forty-seven groups on a ten minute marquee

Barely making sense spitting words at a Mach 3

Sorry as hell, hobby or thrill

Something that ain’t real, it’s obvious still

So for the hell of it we dropped another album

Shock Therapy Freaks, Artificial Intelligence

Run pop pills, get the metal and click

And reload if necessary, just to handle the kick--bitch

“Are you crazy, I got enough to worry about, getting back on the street

Doris, I could fucking kill you!

I’m sorry!!!”