Yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah yeah
("What's your name?") Marshall
("Who's your daddy?") I don't have one
My mother reproduced like the komodo dragon
And had me on the back of a motorcycle, then crashed in
The side of loco-motive with rap, I'm
Loco, it's like handing a psycho a loaded handgun
Michelangelo with a paint gun in a tantrum
'Bout to explode all over the canvas
Back with the Yoda of rap, "In a spasm
Your music usually has 'em
But waned for the game your enthusiasm it hasn't
Follow you must, Rick Rubin my little Padawan."
A Jedi in training, colossal brain and
Thoughts are entertainin'
But docile and impossible to explain and, I'm also vain and
Probably find a way to complain about a Picasso painting
Puke Skywalker, but sound like Chewbacca when I talk
Full of such blind rage I need a seein' eye dog
Can't even find the page I was writing this rhyme on
Oh, it's on the ram-page
Couldn't see what I wrote, I write small
It says, "Ever since I drove a '79 Lincoln with whitewalls
Had a fire in my heart
And a dire desire to aspire to Die Hard."
So as long as I'm on the clock, punching this time card
Hip-hop ain't dying on my watch
Now sometimes when I'm sleepin'
She comes to me in my dreams
Is she taken? Is she mine?
Don't got time, don't care, don't have two shits to give
Let me take you by the hand to promised land
And threaten everyone
'Cause there's no rhyme or no reason for nothing
("Now, what's your name?") Marshall
("Who's your daddy?") I don’t know him, but I wonder—
("Is he rich like me?") Ha
("Has he taken any time to show you what you need to live?")
No, if he had
He wouldn't have ended up in these rhymes on my pad
I wouldn't be so mad, my attitude wouldn't be so bad
Yeah, Dad, I'm the epitome and the prime
Example of what happens when the power of the rhyme
Falls into the wrong hands and
Makes you want to get up and start dancin'
Even if it is Charles Manson
Who just happens to be rappin', blue lights flashin'
Laughin' all the way to the bank, lampin' in my K-Mart mansion
I’m in the style department
With a pile in my cart, rippin' the aisle apart but
With great power comes
Absolutely no responsibility for content
Completely despondent and condescending
The king of nonsense and controversy is on a
Beat-killing spree, Your Honor
I must plead guilty, 'cause I sparked a revolution
Rebel without a cause who caused the evolution
Of rap, to take it to the next level, boost it
But several rebuked it, and whoever produced it
("Hip-hop is the Devil's music")
Does that mean it belongs to me?
'Cause I just happen to be a white honky devil with two horns
That don't honk but every time I speak you hear a beep
But lyrically I never hear a peep, not even a whisper
Rappers better stay clear of me, bitch, 'cause it's the—
It's the time of the season
When hate runs high
And this time, I won't give it to you easy
When I take back what's mine
With pleasured hands
And torture everyone, that is my plan
My job here isn't done
'Cause there's no rhyme or no reason for nothing
("What's your name?") Shady
("Who's your daddy?") I don’t give a fuck, but I wonder
("Is he rich like me?") Doubt it, ha
("Has he taken any time to show you what you need to live?")
So, yeah, Dad—let's walk
Let's have us a father-and-son talk
But I bet we wouldn't probably get one block
Without me knocking your block off, this is all your fault
Maybe that's why I'm so bananas I a-ppealed to all those walks
Of life, whoever had strife
Maybe that's what dad and son talks are like
'Cause I related to the struggles of young America
When their fucking parents were unaware of their troubles
Now they're rippin' out their fuckin' hair again, it's hysterical
I chuckle as everybody bloodies their bare knuckles
Yeah, uh-oh, better beware, knuckle heads!
The sign of my hustle says:
"Don't knock”, the door's broken, it won't lock
It might just fly open, get cold-cocked
You critics come to pay me a visit?
Misery loves company, please stay a minute!
Kryptonite to a hypocrite
Zip your lip if you dish it but can't take it
Too busy gettin' stoned in your glass house
To kick rocks, then you wonder why I lash out
Mr. Mathers as advertised on the flyers, so spread the word
'Cause I'm promoting my passion 'til I'm passed out
Completely brain-dead: Rain Man
Doing a Bankhead in a restraint chair
So, bitch, shoot me a look, it better be a blank stare
Or get shanked in the pancreas
I'm angrier than all eight other reindeer
Put together with Chief Keef 'cause I hate every fuckin' thang, yeah
Even this rhyme, bitch
And quit tryin' look for a fuckin' reason for it that ain't there
But I still am a "Criminal!"
Ten-year-old degenerate grabbin' on my genitals!
The last Mathers LP done went diamond
This time I'm predicting that this one will go emerald! (Hehe)
When will the madness end?
How can it when there's no method to the pad and pen?
The only message that I have to send
Is: "Dad, I'm back at it again!"
Bitch… (Who's your daddy?)