| You know I just don’t get it
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| Last year I was nobody
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| This year I’m sellin records
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| Now everybody wants to come around like I owe em somethin
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| Heh, the f*ck you want from me, ten million dollars?
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| Get the f*ck out of here
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| You see I’m, just Marshall Mathers (Marshall Mathers)
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| I’m just a regular guy
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| I don’t know why all the fuss about me (fuss about me)
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| Nobody ever gave a f*ck before
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| All they did was doubt me (did was doubt me)
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| Now everybody wanna run they mouth
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| And try to take shots at me (take shots at me)
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| Yo, you might see me joggin, you might see me walkin
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| You might see me walkin a dead rottweiler dog
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| With it’s head chopped off in the park with a spiked collar
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| Hollerin at him cause the son of a b*tch won’t quit barkin
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| (Grrrr, ARF ARF) Or leanin out a window, with a cocked shotgun
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| Drivin up the block in the car that they shot 'Pac in
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| Lookin for Big’s killers, dressed in ridiculous
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| Blue and red like I don’t see what the big deal is
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| Double barrel twelve gauge bigger than Chris Wallace
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| Pissed off, cause Biggie and 'Pac just missed all this
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| Watchin all these cheap imitations get rich off 'em
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| And get dollars that shoulda been there’s like they switched wallets
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| And amidst all this Crist' poppin and wristwatches
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| I had to sit back and just watch and just get nauseous
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| And walk around with an empty bottle of Remi Martin
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| Startin sh*t like some 26-year-old skinny Cartman («God damnit!»)
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| I’m anti-Backstreet and Ricky Martin
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| With instincts to kill N’Sync, don’t get me started
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| These f*ckin brats can’t sing and Britney’s garbage
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| What’s this bitch retarded? |
| Gimme back my sixteen dollars
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| All I see is sissies in magazines smiling
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| Whatever happened to whylin out and bein violent?
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| Whatever happened to catchin a good-ol' fashioned
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| Passionate ass-whoopin and gettin your shoes coat and your hat tooken?
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| New Kids on the Block, s*cked a lot of dick
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| Boy/girl groups make me sick
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| And I can’t wait 'til I catch all you faggots in public
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| I’ma love it. |
| (hahaha)
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| Vanilla Ice don’t like me (uh-uh)
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| Said some shit in Vibe to spite me (yup)
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| Then went and dyed his hair just like me (hehe)
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| A bunch of little kids wanna swear just like me
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| And run around screamin, «I don’t care, just bite me» (nah nah)
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| I think I was put here to annoy the world
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| And destroy your little 4-year-old boy or girl
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| Plus I was put here to put fear in faggots who spray Faygo Root Beer
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| And call themselves «Clowns» cause they look queer
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| Faggot2Dope and Silent Gay
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| Claimin Detroit, when y’all live twenty miles away (f*ckin punks)
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| And I don’t wrestle, I’ll knock you f*ckin faggots the f*ck out
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| Ask 'em about the club they was at when they snuck out
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| After they ducked out the back when they saw us and bugged out
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| (AHHH!) Ducked down and got paintballs shot at they truck, blaow!
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| Look at y’all runnin your mouth again
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| when you ain’t seen a fuckin Mile Road, South of 10
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| And I don’t need help, from D-12, to beat up two females
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| In make-up, who may try to scratch me with Lee Nails
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| «Slim Anus,» you damn right, Slim Anus
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| I don’t get fucked in mine like you two little flaming faggots!
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| You see I’m, just Marshall Mathers (Marshall Mathers)
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| I’m just a regular guy
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| I don’t know why all the fuss about me (fuss about me)
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| Nobody ever gave a f*ck before
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| All they did was doubt me (did was doubt me)
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| Now everybody wanna run they mouth
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| And try to take shots at me (take shots at me)
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| Cause I’m, just Marshall Mathers (Marshall Mathers)
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| I’m not a wrestler guy,
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| I’ll knock you out if you talk about me (you talk about me)
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| Come and see me on the streets alone
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| if you as*holes doubt me (assholes doubt me)
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| And if you wanna run your mouth
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| then come take your best shot at me (your best shot at me)
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| Is it because you love me that y’all expect so much of me?
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| You little groupie bitch, get off me, go f*ck Puffy
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| Now because of this blonde mop that’s on top
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| And this fucked up head that I’ve got, I’ve gone pop?
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| The underground just spunned around and did a 360
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| Now these kids diss me and act like some big sissies
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| «Oh, he just did some shit with Missy
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| So now he thinks he’s too big to do some shit with MC Get-Bizzy» |
| My f*ckin b*tch mom’s suin for ten million
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| She must want a dollar for every pill I’ve been stealin
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| Sh*t, where the fuck you think I picked up the habit?
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| All I had to do was go in her room and lift up her mattress
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| Which is it b*tch, Mrs. Briggs or Ms. Mathers?
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| It doesn’t matter your faggot!
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| Talkin about I fabricated my past
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| He’s just aggravated I won’t ejaculate in his ass (Uhh!)
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| So tell me, what the hell is a fella to do?
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| For every million I make, another relative sues
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| Family fightin and fussin over who wants to invite me to supper
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| All the sudden, I got 90 some cousins (Hey it’s me!)
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| A half-brother and sister who never seen me
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| Or even bothered to call me until they saw me on TV
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| Now everybody’s so happy and proud
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| I’m finally allowed to step foot in my girlfriend’s house
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| Hey-hey! |
| And then to top it off, I walked to the newsstand
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| To buy this cheap-ass little magazine with a food stamp
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| Skipped to the last page, flipped right fast
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| And what do I see? |
| A picture of my big white a*s
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| Okay, let me give you motherfuckers some help:
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| uhh, here — DOUBLE XL, DOUBLE XL
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| Now your magazine shouldn’t have so much trouble to sell
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| Ahh f*ck it, I’ll even buy a couple myself
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| You see I’m, just Marshall Mathers (Marshall Mathers)
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| I’m just a regular guy
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| I don’t know why all the fuss about me (fuss about me)
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| Nobody ever gave a f*ck before
|
| All they did was doubt me (did was doubt me)
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| Now everybody wanna run they mouth
|
| And try to take shots at me (take shots at me)
|
| You see I’m, just Marshall Mathers (Marshall Mathers)
|
| I’m just a regular guy
|
| I don’t know why all the fuss about me (fuss about me)
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| Nobody ever gave a f*ck before
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| All they did was doubt me (did was doubt me)
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| Now everybody wanna run they mouth
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| And try to take shots at me (take shots at me) |