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    Masters Of Illusion / Lyrics

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    "Back Up Kid" Lyrics

    Masters Of Illusion

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    Duration:00:03:34
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    Lyrics

    The electricity shall now be passed through your body
    Until you are dead

    [Chorus]
    Back up kid, forty billion hundred power watts
    Back up kid, forty billion hundred power
    Back up kid, forty billion hundred power watts
    Back up kid, forty 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
    A-D-A-T's work you got static, turn your Nieve up
    You on four-track, tic-tac, I still wipe butt crack
    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]

    I see emcees 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' ass crack
    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 every time I speak
    You at the Apollo, you whack 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]
    This song was submitted on September 30th, 2013 and last modified on October 18th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © The Bicycle Music Company.
    Written by Keith Thornton, Kurt Matlin.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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