It’s the young college undergrad, Rock a button-up that’s plaid.
Head up in the clouds, cuz I wanna be the next big fad.
Turn the volume up a tad. Blaring all the speakers out.
Living in Wisconsin dude, I eat my brat with sourkraut.
Drinking on the darkest stout, and puffing on the ripest buds.
Brad and me look so damn clean, they call us team Pup n’ suds.
Rolling on this Jonson beat, tear it up like I was blade.
Stab it with a steak so it won’t rise out of the fucking grave.
Need a shave, got that dirty bum swagger.
Full beard and hat head from my snapback, looking haggard.
Compete with me? My words will shove a dagger down your throat.
I’ll just sit there laughing while you choke, like that’s all she wrote.

(HOOK)
Yeah, you know what it is
Fucking white kids coming in here and taking over the game
Just get on our fucking level dude.
Ayo, B-Money. Tell the people what you think.

(BKnitts)
I think the people like me cuz I spit that real stuff.
I mean, I’m kinda like the rap verison of Neil Young.
I mean, It’s hard for them to listen and not feel dumb.
These douchers goin’ stupid like it’s Soulja Boy and steel drums.
Fuck it, challenge me, I dare you dude.
I’m in a room full of other rappers, bet there ain't nobody there to compare me to.
I’m sick, ugh, Rick Ross ain’t got shit on this.
I can make a cripple run, I can make a pig vomit.
Car made of diamonds, Wine up in the canteen.
I abort these haters like B-Money stands for Plan B.
Get it? I put these kids down like naptime.
Gonna beat ‘em in their nightmares ‘till they motherfucking flatline.

(HOOK)
‘Namsayin? We got mustaches up in this.
We got flat brims, you know.

I’ll keep it relative, like a dad and son.
Two white suburban rappers, yup that is us.
Challenge us, battle us, take a swing, batter up.
More hoes on our side than a motherfucking ladder truck.
Gotta get it how I live it, when I put ‘em in a rhythm,
bet they’re never gonna get a word in, whoah, bring it back
What’s my frame of mind? P-p-picture perfect.
Yeah, get your canon, take a snapshot
I’m at a rapper’s throat like a motherfucking ascot.
Eske, Class In Session, I’m the fucking class clown.
Not talkin’ bout sit ups when I suggest you back down.
Boy, you ain’t no rapper, you’re a motherfucking cash cow.
Sadly enough, the milk is getting kind of flat now.

(HOOK)
Oh, I see what you did there.
Yeah, that was a...marketing reference
Cool bro. Lemme show you how it's really done.

(Eske)
We’re clowing all you sorry fucks like you were juggalos.
Bitch, I’m writing rhymes inside my simple college bungalow.
We make good music, while these others put on puppet shows.
Claiming that you’re hip hop? We’re more raw than you will ever know.
A couple white kids from the ‘burbs, going ham.
Bitch I’m harder than cement, you’re looking soft like Aubrey Grahm.
Or Wheelchair Jimmy, cuz you rap like you were handicapped.
Oh, and Eli Porter called, he wants his fucking swagger back.
I’m flexing on ya like I’m Arnold in the eighties. (Grunt)
And if you touch my cookies, you won’t ever go home safely
Compared to me you’re just a skinny dude that hails from Haiti.
Bitch, I’ll break you like a twig, and you’ll be pushing up some daisies.