one two one two ultra mad kenny in full effect he's talking about getting the number son
we’ve got pure beef, yo, tell ‘em what’s on your mind

I’m Kenny, and now it’s my turn to trick get stick get picked then kick off
do ma own thing stitch up change yer pitch up, smack that bitch up, King Kev
He’s not a rapper, dis’nae deserve to wear the boots and step on ma path
Can’t dribble and his aim is terrible, drives a Corsa, doing 35 needs a driving test
whatever who’s the best in line, I put ‘em all behind
play in a number that’s a warning sign of my skill, I never mind the nerves
can’t relegate to the f***ing reserves, cos who deserves tonight to be king of the team
They shout back oh it’s me, what are you nothing germ yer below me
quit it before I bite yer ear off, let yer brain adjust to silverware I’m racking
for the pace I’m packing, gimme the ball yer arse am sacking
now give the number son

It’s said when ah score a belter, when ah enter your best defend her
cos it don’t impress when it fell to any bum who never even held a promotion
or thought that they could anger me, I got the cup, you wasn’t even there with me
on my stage you're cheering with the regulars.
So step back cos I’m about to slay this Kev, erase away
till you adjourn I’ll fill ye with eggs n cream and nuff raw meat
capers, stirring and stirring, you’re a mistake a wafer I’m rubbing your face in
Cuss you out cos like stink, you’re not worthy to lie in my sink
you’re like Cartlidge had to boot you in the left knee, or my head or should ah just every weekend see for you to to play like us, pull out my duster shine the cups you won’t reach, Kens respect
I’ll cut you off, just like your pay-check
Bono on your stereo
Yeah you’re a a real pro
you’re di caneo with an afro
it’s smells funky you stink tho you know why
give my number son