White trash feel wave of discontent Lost your place in this society Your lack of perfection And direction its time you left it all behind White trashed
Try to find a reason why youre so lost within you Might want to express the feelings youve locked inside your heart Burning up overheated with confusion
Under a bridge you sit alone Waiting for that empty mind The noise it drives through your head Like a sound wave from the core Under a bridge you sit
know who's drivin a black Mitsubishi) He tried to run so Proof shot him in the knee wit a three piece [Chorus- Eminem] One shot two shot three shots
Uh, it's that real shit yo Grrr! [1] - Can't stop Gotta eat Stepping on, my feet Spread love, think it's sweet Uh, uh, uh all you catz don't know
be rated a 12 (right!) You know it and these cats hate it I got nothing outdated If it is it's self rated S-class wit everything voice-activated Chrome rim three
feet deep Man, I'll murder your jeans, I'll feed 'em to the fishes Here's what I'd do, if I had three wishes Punch your jeans on all three counts It
you This goes out to you, this goes out to you This goes out to you, this goes out to you Some people sleep five to a bed Three at the feet, two at
to ten, I've been rated a twelve, right You know this and these cats hate it I got nothin' outdated if it is, it's self rated S-class with everything voice activated Chrome rim, three
ain't got no dough Chick please, get in Dust your shoes off before you touch that flo' 'Cause you wanna put your feet on my rug I say you look to put your feet
' like he had to have her Swept him off his feet but got sliced with the dagger Well, in these times, well atleast to me No true niggas rollin' come in sets of three
to feet But never sleep on the vocabulary skillz Of a nigga that?s out to make mills, uh My nigga phats bossalini tells all the block cats Got a hundred
wanna know who's drivin' a black Mitsubishi) He tried to run so Proof shot him in the knee wit a three piece One shot, two shot, three shots, four shots
in the everglades, surfing the airwave Catch a buck fifty where the razorblades swiftly Shaolin cats be shiesty, strictly drunk off the Irish whiskey [Chorus] [Verse Three
New Year's son (fuck ya'll niggaz, this ain't no Yo, Ghostface, my gold is fifty hundred, I want my money) NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX! FIVE! FOUR! THREE!