If Biggie was a parent to my kids, the lyrics to this song would be a little different. Behold, the Kid Crap Commandments:
Whaat, uhh, uhh.
Motha can’t tell me nothin bout this mess, uh-huh
Can’t tell me nothin ’bout these plastic chunks from ChuckECheese.
To my hoarding brothaz,
Brothaz in the corner, collecting chewed up erasers and shit,
My rock collection brothaz, word up.
One two three four five six seven eight nine
Had this Lego set for years, it’s missing sixteen pieces,
But I keep the thing right here, I worship it like Jesus.
This’ the step by step rules, for all my sweet-ass nicknacks,
Displayed between 5 stacked dice and a row of 40 tictacs.
Rule nombre uno: Never let your mom really see that funk,
Those oozing glow sticks and that styrofoam hunk,
Cuz when the vacuum comes, down you’ll be wearing a frown.
Homie cover it up, before your mom get up,
Number two: you know the fairy ain’t got a place for those teeth,
Bad Boys set up Kinex with molars piled underneath.
Take it from a boy who knows (uh-huh)
How to use paperclips to clean the nails of his toes.
Number three: never trust no-bo-dy
Who doesn’t wash their hands after goin potty.
Don’t you touch my dried-up nest in this Dairy Queen cup,
Before you get those Cheeto fingers cleaned up,
Or I be doing so much screaming the mirror be steamed up.
Number four: know you heard this before,
NEVER SCRATCH THE EYES, off your LEGO GUYS.
Number five: never sell no crap, don’t even trade it.
I don’t care if mom offers food, for your armless dude.
Number six: that god damn toy box, just forget it.
Your mom tell you to put the crap back? She gon’ regret it.
Seven: this rule is so underrated
Keep all meltable objects shaded.
Money and feathers and marbles are fine,
But homeboy’s wax lips straight liquified.
Saw the stain for myself last July.
Number eight: never keep no crap in your pockets,
‘Less you want your moms to totally wash it.
Number nine shoulda been number one to me
If you ever get kidney stones or a tonsillectomy (uh-huh)
Get a mason jar to put that shit inside,
The surgeon can give you some formaldehyde.
Number ten: a little thing called a happy meal,
Gives us homeboys the most magical feels.
If mom buys just the nuggets say hi-ell NO!
Then throw your screaming self on the tile FLO.
Follow these rules you’ll have mad precious junk,
Because brothaz like us love our sweet, sweet funk.