Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Back Up Kid, artist - Masters Of IllusionDate of issue: 13.11.2000
Song language: English
Back Up Kid |
| The electricity shall now be passed through your body |
| until you are dead |
| 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 |
| 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 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 |