Tekst piosenki
Mad madness trashy brother from way back. We're blowin mics since the days of 8-track. Certified bonified pull out the weapon. Rusted. Your ho's gets busted. Run your jules! Shootin up ya damn fools. Leavin' your loser lazy lyricist in bloody pools. Went away came back your still wack. Now your slobbin Marly's mob for a dope track. Comin off like a bra and its the witness. No click-click a fru (?) business Don't care about no money got props in it. Flippin scripts with every letter in the alphabet. Wanna jump. JUMP! And jingle your rump. RUMP! Here to pump punks with real hot lead chunks. Full-grown I ain't no baby with these rhymes kid. Put the mic down my peoples know where ya live. I chop you little brittle riddle right up the middle and have the police playin the fiddle in the hospital. Somebody said, "He couldn't rip with the roughness." Rhymes kick your teeth but end up frontless. Soul survivor of a thousand beats sendin funeral wreathes to all ya use-to-be chiefs. Is a raw to a bearlin in the woods (?). Brothers tapes ain't jack their best tracks is wack. I heard you think you got a chance to win but my glock is stopped off to murder the top ten. Rough and rugged and raw I'm like a callous. The underground can say "ain't no Fra-zontin in my palace." Well can I be the flavor of the month? I got the flavor plus I can bump a chump. I got the funk straight from my underground hide-out. I freak it in the house and let the hits just ooz out. Bust on the scene to let ya know I wasn't frontin. Got ya screamin for my album so I had to do somethin. Write tonight to take a bit not a bite. And watch the (?) freak you with all my might. Like "Here I am to save the day!" I stop the tracks with the mic so I say "To chay" and "On Gaurd" when I'm swingin for your brow. Cause in the house of hits ain't no frontin allowed. Just when you thought that it was safe to try and chop me. Run for ya life now here somes Mr. Funky and I'm pissed. So watch how many heads I'll be the takeout boy ya better look out I work ya like a cook-out. So get the flavor the original Mr. Funky (?) and you watch me do my thing. Because I hit ya with the funk of the fly-talker and make your girl "Bump-bump! Get it, Get it!" like Luke Skywalker. I can't front I love rappin with a passion. Crash your head front into the funk you think I'm slam dancin. See when you front you make mad the alter weight (?). Freak this: "funky twin powers activate!" Sheik on the mic with the cape and muscles. Crushin MC's while their girls do the hustle. See other rappers try to dis the lords but yo, your dead wrong. Damnit, can't we all just get along? We'll see there simply ain't no frontin allowed. Yo, I'm out like the Cosby show peace to the Funky Child. Punchin your god-damn eyebrows off roughin it up north lookin' like your laugh off (?). It's a blash smash and crash from my stash. Be watchin your back kid. Your girl and the phat path. Talkin bout your macks and tax. What's with that? Your gettin wet like sloooow sex. Rippin on that old school kid. Leavin sliced as a slit says I wet your crib. No question. Testin the west and the east and once the ammo was released and I'll make your girl come and getcha. Hope you get the picture. Boy your better off if a pit bit ya! What's its like in the illest fight. Believe the hype. I'm givin crowds more nose jobs than Mike. Fight sight alright they bite spot light tonight is hype trigger happy tripe don't hit bite my owner's right. And ya know it's comin off so don't ask it. Snatchin the vocal and hotties on the rap tip. Mackin ya boys up. Bringin the noise up. And now ya need stitches because my voice cuts. Chainsaw gain more and riegn raw. And never let a brother play it is my main law.
