Lyrics of 'Be Your Dog' by Styles Of Beyond
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Yeah!
It’s Megadef
What you know about Cheapshot?!
What you know about Tak?!
What you know about Ryu, Faggot?!
What you know about Vin Scully?!
Another half-ass, hit out now
We used to chill, ‘til that motherfucker bit our style
It’s kinda funny how, You and your friends are small town
Act like you got something, big to draw down, silly
Probably confused, sobered up to shine
So when you rhyme, you sound like both of us combined
And don’t act like you don’t know
You in a crew, couldn’t hold it down solo
You full of poop so I’mma scoop the feces, put it in a Pamper (Uh)
Let it drag, any time you call out won’t answer
Punk, get a cab and a robbery
You a little kitten that shouldn’t have climbed a tree
Now you stuck with the truth ‘til we dig up the bones
I feel pregnant--birth to my musical clones
So for nine months, the pack rats watch them grow
With your backpack, clown, you sound sloppy though
Now I wanna be your dog
Now I wanna be your dog
Now I wanna be your dog
Now I wanna be your dog
(Listen up, faggots)
Knock, knock come off the damn platinum
Stand back, drop the plaque, “Pop, pop!”
So cock the magnum, “Rock, rock”
Blow shots off at random, Ryu and Tak
And we don’t stop the anthem
Give my flow back
Lo-Jack, phone-tap, punk the Pink Panther
Give me a soul clap, “Click, clack!”
Rip that, snap necks quicker than Kit-Kats
Knick knack, patty wack pistol grip pump the jams up
Wild West SOB’ shit’s bonanza
Who the fuck wants it, spit guitar picks
Slit your neck with a Bic razor across it
Knock the bitch lead singer unconscious
No pets, so don’t step watch the dog shit
Signed a bad deal, with a weak video
Maybe if I had skill I wouldn’t need serial
And we ain’t have to pay anybody for shit
Especially to play me, like I’m some kind of a bitch
And every other day people want to swallow and spit
Like a plunger, to sludge in abdominal kits
And the promoters with their fat heads
You and your chick friends (Uh)
You don’t even know what rap is--you tripping
Forty-seven groups on a ten minute marquee
Barely making sense spitting words at a Mach 3
Sorry as hell, hobby or thrill
Something that ain’t real, it’s obvious still
So for the hell of it we dropped another album
Shock Therapy Freaks, Artificial Intelligence
Run pop pills, get the metal and click
And reload if necessary, just to handle the kick--bitch
“Are you crazy, I got enough to worry about, getting back on the street
Doris, I could fucking kill you!
I’m sorry!!!”
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