It’s Daddy’s turn and I’m getting Crunk up on this microphone
The zone I own and it’s well known that Dave Jones will break them bones with these verbal onslaughts
I’m tying these fools into lots of knots and then they think to themselves; “Oh shit it’s getting hot!”
They’re taking lots of shots. I got the spot locked down from the ceiling to the ground, four walls all
around. The three angle emcee coming with surround sound
Man, I don’t fuck around.
The rhythmic narration of my poetic creation;
Sensation is elation and every word brings more anticipation.
Man, I got you waiting for more. What’s Daddy got in store for the encore?
And there’s no guessing about the blessings that’s from the Universe
I’m leaving these sucka emcees confused like they goats on astro-turf.
Boy you got your nerve, don’t be absurd cause every word that you heard
Is coming straight from the tip of my tongue and then straight thru my lips.
Every word that I spit, hit, rip, trip and dislocate them hips.
Now take a drink. You’re only gonna need a sip.
Too much, too soon and you might become an addict.


Chorus:
They call it Crunk Rock (3x)

I attack like the air force with them gale force winds, Slaying suckas and their kin.
God please forgive my sins. For the shit that I’m in. I’m out to battle and win.
Pin medals on my chest; In peace may suckas rest. I wanna be the best and I won’t stop until I’m passing
the test.
A lion and a golden microphone that is my family crest.
Now I’m the champion. I’m in a league that you can’t be in. I got suckas looking for some pamperin
Their chests are cramping and heaving and bleeding while their hairline is recedeing and help is what
they`re needing and they`re pleading for as their style pours on the floor.
They can`t take it no more, no mercy rule so I continue to score with slap shots, jabs, 3pt bombs and
dunks.
I flow for 99 yards on the illest of funk. I got the bump in the trunk and I smoke the fuck out some skunk.
They`re still looking for the last emcee that called me a punk.
So don’t try to escape to create a battle plan.
I`ll cross check you in your neck with this microphone stand.
I`m as good as some but, yo I`m better than most man.
I`m a pitbull on this mic and that`s your ass Mr. Postman.

Chorus:
They call it Crunk Rock!! (3x)

Unnecessarily rough when I`m calling your bluff. First round eliminated cuz you ain’t tough enough.
I pay the cost to be the boss and you`re soft like lukewarm Haagen-Daas.
You make-believer, how the fuck do you plan to set it off?
You’d have better luck stopping a runaway logging truck.
Like virgins in the mile high club, I don’t give a flying fuck;
about your status, your opinion nor your reputation.
Eviscerate you and your crew without hesitation.
And I don’t need a map to show you exactly where my head is at.
One $20 beat from Tony Heat and Daddy gladly handle that.
You think you’re hard as Tony Starks when he suits up.
Thinking you’re established? Man, come watch me tear them roots up.
Transplanted like a refugee when you try to stand here next to me.
I’m hard to read like a warrantee and so sick I should be in quarantine.
Versatile as a thesaurus. Your rhymes and chorus are porous.
I’m Mr. Automatic and you’re dramatic as static.
The power button can’t stop it and sucka emcees can’t top it.
If your girlie coochie feel the beat you know she gonna pop it.
Because it can’t be denied. Other emcees they tried but when they gripped them mic when I let go the
muthafuckers retired.

They call it Crunk Rock (repeated)