Poppa Large

I keep in shape and do my physical fitness Your head's numb, so your brains a miss this Pick 'em up, eat 'em up, pick 'em up, heat 'em up Pick 'em up picklehead, pick 'em up picky I roll wit globs and I come real sticky Grippin' the mic, I plug it up in your ears Crazed and brewer. I'm coming out like beers Like Rheingold, Miller, Coors, and Buds I'm a eat 'em wit popcorn and treat 'em like suds you duds Coming out the wick wack, wicky, wickable wack Black jack, that's a fact, writing exact behind your back The funk rhyme'n master, blaster Kicking up in a brainstorm, rainstorm Rap storm, rap form Rap time, rap rhyme Rap class, I'm here to fail and to pass To continue, furthermore on the hype tip I roll and rock, rock and roll Jazz and pop, rhythm and Blues Dance and fusion, brain confusion Look at the lights, what a night on the town I'm Poppa Large, big shot on the East coast Now I'm back to funk, freak the funk Hype the funk, swipe the funk and all that junk I get busy on 'em, communicate wit the world Man, woman, a baby boy and a girl Poppa large looking out the bombs drop Taking stroud while your face and arms drop Stop, look, learn to read, learn to write Learn to talk, learn to walk And watch your step though, I'm hype and ripe though Kleptomaniac, a rhyme'n psycho A Ricky Ricardo, a Guy Lombardo Sporting a ragtop, an El Dorado Step into Hollywood, I'm screening the boulevards The rhymes is gain type, I'm ready to pull a card Jack'a Ace, King'a Queen Call me the deuce, I'm pouring out like juice Hitting the top, feeling the rim Getting a trim, I never rhyme like them On and on, on and on, on and on Until the break of dawn I go overtime, rock the mic in nighttime Daytime, switching off to Primetime Pacific east, strolling back in the west time Ride the funk wit the mic in the east rhyme Hype and dope, hype the frame The mic is smoking, yo I ain't joking Rhyme to kill, rhyme to murder, rhyme to stomp Rhyme to ill, rhyme to rock Rhyme to smack, rhyme to shock, rhyme to roll Rhyme to destroy any decoy boy On the microphone I'm Poppa Large, big shot on the East coast You're dripping sweaty, coming hard on your neck As I flow and grow from head to toe Seeking a style like John McEnroe Dissing 'em all, serving them wit the mic stand Like Prince and Michael coming out wit a big band The crowd is live, you can play as the manager Run wit the money, I pull the trigger and damage ya Boom, taking life more serious I may sound lyrical and very mysterious Rhymes are grip tight, program to kill more A son of Sam, how could I be Gilmore? Grabbing the mic, you see the dark and shadows You're in living hell, without time to battle The funk ignited, hands are writing, brains dividing I'm coming out in sighting Like I'm Blackula, a better man that Dracula Spectacular and not irregular In fact you are speaking impopular Rhymes are moved and you can't be stop wit the Beat as it goes to the rhyme that flows Like a coke in a straw burning up in your nose That's a bad habit, stepping out on stage one Drop the mic, come and turn to page one Look at the master, my rank is higher My lyrical burns, your brain's on fire I'm Poppa Large, big shot on the East coast