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