I get mad wicked (fuck around) and catch a bad one by the funker
I puff the mad spliffs and roll blunts with Archie Bunker
'Cause my brain is twisted, so I cock the biscuit
'Cause shit's thick, some say I'mma bastard of a swift bitch
Negro, funkin' it with the style in your ear, bro
To make you fear me like Cape without Robert DeNiro
You big pussy, so funky that you have to douche me
You can't hear me then my record label didn't push me
I know I'm sayin' 'funk' too many times in my rhymes
But if I wasn't that, I wouldn't freak it in the line
But it don't seems to matter 'cause my shit get fatter and fatter
I'll do the funk in your face and it slaps ya
How does it feel with the face full of funk
With the bass in your trunk, weed laced with the blunt
I puff, I never got snuffed, bust while I dust your monkey
Ass off then I just crush on the hush hush
So if you want a taste of the funk from the gutter
Ask the brothers (Why?) 'Cause I'm bad (Word to mother)
I'm a bad... Yo, word to the mother (x3)
I'm a bad... Bad bad, and a wicked in bed
I'm a bad... Yo, word to the mother (x3)
I'm a bad... Bad bad, and a wicked in bed
Yo yo, check this out
This is for y'all hokey-pokey punk pussy motherfuckers
Just to show y'all I do what the fuck I wanna do
I want y'all to check this on the real
And yo, check this out
Shake it! C'mon shake it! C'mon shake it! C'mon shake it!
Whassup now? Whassup now? Whassup now? Whassup now?
Whattup now? Hahahahah
(Yo Red, c'mon, get back to the track man, I wanna get out of here!)
Yo kid chill, a'ight, a'ight, check it out
Flexy I'm sexy when I'm standin' in my drawers
If you can't check me when I'm rappin', put the tape on pause
And listen to the incredible shit that I kick my man
Give me five on the backhand then stick
Your finger in a hole and chop the stick quick
'Cause my lip get to the point, to STILL rock the fly shit
Since you're holding your breath, I hold my jewels
I swing hardcore, so I walk, holdin' my tools
The original P-Funk, takes no junk, from a chump, or punk, G
I been this way every since nine months
So get down while I rip the raps from my lip 'cause
My shit's more deep, than any tape from Enigma
The gettin' nice, thinkin' killer brother who pop trash
Basic instinct — I'm a shooter so they got blasted
Much ass I kick, groove to the master mix
My song still pumps when it's not even mastered, bitch!
My shit's very chronic so rewind it
'Cause it's like.. eh-eh-eh-eh beyond, bionic!
'Cause I'm a wild and crazy guy! No lie!
Last brother to battle me I started pissin' in his eye
I'm bad, word to mother, to the motherfuckin' Hubbard
Eatin' her curds and whey, puffin spliffs 'cause she doesn't
And if you still don't under-fuckin-stand where I'm comin' from
Listen to my nine, understand where it's hummin' from!
I'm a bad... Yo, word to the mother (x3)
I'm a bad... Bad bad, and a wicked in bed
I'm a bad... Yo, word to the mother (x3)
I'm a bad... Bad bad, and a wicked in bed
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
