I Ain't No Bitch Ain't No Hoe Lyrics

If you don't back off, I'm killing myself. [x4]

[M-Child]

I think you pushed the wrong button, bitch.
I self destruct, f*ck the world, nigga talkin' shit.
They call me the shit starter of the f*cking clique.
I represent O.M., Orange Mound, bitch.
A bunch of hard-core motherf*cking lyricists.
Provided bags, bandana rags, and shoot quick.
And ride steamer, gettin' blown for the f*ck of it.
I'm lovin' it, tell a hater straight, "Suck my dick."
And giggle in your f*cking face, 'cause you lame, mane.
And ride through your f*cking hood and do the same thing.
I test nuts when I'm high off that green and gin,
And got some gold brass knuckles that'll bruise a chin.
They call me the M-Child, psycho f*cking kid.
I'm splittin' weaves tryin' to get a motherf*cking gig.
The shit I did or will do to a nigga,
Really gon' leave 'em scared,
Standin' in a puddle of piss runnin' down his leg.

[M-Child] [Chorus x2]

(If you don't back off, I'm killing myself.) [x4]
I ain't no bitch, I ain't no hoe,
I ain't no bitch, I ain't no hoe,
Player hater you gotta go,
Player hater you gotta go,
I'm all about makin scrilla' and cookin' that green dough.

[M-Child]

I'm about stackin' grip,
I go to church 'cause I'm holy.
People ask me what the M. stands for, because they nosey.
I keep a lot of shit to myself, keep niggas thinking,
What will he do next, when he high and when he drinking?
Don't f*ck around nigga, don't f*ck around with me,
I snap, crackle, and pop, like f*cking Rice Crispies. You think it's a game, a motherf*cking talk show?
Niggas laughin' like they ate a f*cking Tickle-Me-Elmo.
Get that grin up off you face,
Get up out your paper chase,
Make a bitch bounce that ass,
Make her buy you birthday cake.
It's a new millenium, 2000, I'm on the rise,
Better catch up, but not the kind you put on french fries.
I can make a nigga hot, make 'em catch a bloody nose.
When I hit the studio, rip tracks like panty hose.
Bring pain, cause my game is like the finger fold,
Lock down, twist 'em up, and refuse to let 'em go.

[Chorus x2]

[M-Child]

You better hang on my nig', I'm gone, I'm in a zone.
Microphone be on, better leave me alone.
Straight hard-core shit, I'm bringin' it to your home,
And to your tape cassette, CDs, or headphones.
Eliminations for sure, we be comin' in a pack,
Ready to attack, open up your back with a Gat.
Lock down, close shop, fill up every crack.
I ain't givin' a nigga shit, not even a Scooby Snack.
Yo' hater you comin' back, why you tryin' to take mine,
I'ma turn into McGruff and take a bite out of crime.
f*ck 'em all, 'bout one phone call, it can be done.
Take 'em out, 'cause of low self-esteem, you on the run.
Never f*cking with your kind, 'cause your kind pullin' stunts,
I'ma beat your ass like you ate my Captain Crunch.
Drag 'em through the mud,
Shoot your ass like a punk,
You only came too deep,
We bigger then Brady Bunch, nigga.

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