[ VERSE 1 ]

I ain't one to gossip, but I heard your shit was wack

And I ain't one to brag, but this jam is fat

I won't push you to the extreme to say I'm all that

But if you have to ask, then you must think that

Don't understand what it means to be conceited

Never left a sentence or a verse incompleted

In a battle I won't get defeated

And I don't get mad, I get heated

Had to wreck the ones that wanted to fight me

Don't give a damn if nobody likes me

Never lit the likes of pipes or hype

I'm livin for me, myself and the mic

Love to rock Nikes and a dope sweat hoodie

You can't buy vinyl at no Sam Goody

Hip-hop DJ's, what will you do

Record companies don't know, when you do, buy two

They're killin hip-hop with ease

And I hate those damn cd's

Now let's talk about the birds and Heather B's

Sisters, don't allow yourself to get skeezed

And believe I got the mad self-respect

So recognize and understand my rep

And if you show me any disrespect

You better know that I get wreck



[ CHORUS ]

And I get wreck

(On and on and on and on)	--> Grand Puba

(Ugh! Ugh! Ugh)



[ VERSE 2 ]

I'm not a star, cause I don't shine

I'm a go-getter, cause I will go get mine

I ain't lazy, moody or shady

And I won't lie, but I am crazy

The same way I chill, I will ill

And I wanna beat you cause your ???? need a kill

I got skills and I don't pop pills

And no man can say that I want his diznills

I won't fix anything that's not broken

Rather jump the turnstyle than pay a token

I'm no criminal, I'm not crooked

But I can't say that I'll never do it

The Kenny Parker beats are just stupid

He finds the funky shit and he loops it

Adds the flavor, bass, hi's and snares

Books a studio session and I meet him there

I grab my lyrics and get a microphone check

And open my mouth, then commence to wreck



[ CHORUS ]



[ VERSE 3 ]

I used to get weeded, but now I hate the smell

So I stopped just to keep my braincells

Don't like the feelin of bein high

Like to stay down-low and write dope rhymes

If I gotta be high, it's high-paid

And it's not my style to high-profile

Not the only child, one of four

Thank God my pops was too broke to make more

So I make dough for me and the fam

I never know when they might need a helpin hand

Don't get me wrong, I never flash loot

And every now and then I sport my Doc Marten boots

Only in the winter do I wear Timbos

Never been called a broad or bimbo

Don't do the limbo cause it's corny

And I wish they'd sell Snapple by the 40

It took a while to get my album set

Now I'm here and I'm gettin wreck



[ CHORUS ]



[ SHOUT OUTS ]

Yeah, Heather B gonna give a few shout outs, you know

Peace to BDP

Peace to Biz Markie

Peace to Kid Capri

Peace to Teddy Ted & Special K

And I'm out