[Verse 1: Your Old Droog]
And I ain't even met Wyclef yet
Knew I was poppin' when I got my first death threat
Told son to come see me, hit him with the address
Never worry 'bout no bad press, talk about me
Let 'em pile on, cause now they got a file on
The kid who played fingerstyle with strings made of nylon
Coming with hot lines for you to get your dial on
Always hear Your Old Droog spittin' that Dylan
Dylan, Dylan, where the hell is Dylan?
Probably hidin' out on W. 8th and Highlawn
Slingin' deals to a section 8 Adrienne Bailon
Sneakin' out at night and gettin' busy with the Krylon
Lookin' for someone to wild on
While on drugs, my white bitch keeps gats in her Uggs
Poorly planned attacks fueled by Xanax
Chopped off someone's hands with an axe
Facts, now I'm only concerned with green
Stay printin' contracts out of Kinko's machines
The competition are fiends
All they do is drink codeine and wear JNCO jeans
I'm Stone Cold, they Malenko, Dean
Deficient in zinc and protein, can't see me
Seen Y.O.D., spotted like a coyote
With yo' wife's pussy juices on my goatee
[?] wasn't even noon
And she had baggies in her poon
Who is she? She's a valley girl
Oh No is like, "I'm throwin' you the alley, curl!"
Then I gammed, it's nothin' to get son to slam it
My finishes at the rim run the gamut
Like when's he gonna stop, goddammit
Writin' is like Shakespeare's
It shakes peers, this my Hamlet