2 Minutes & 21 Seconds of Funk

Yeah, yeah, yeah You know what I'm talkin' about Wino Yeah, yeah, yeah Two minutes and 21 seconds of funk And I ain't no punk That's right, that's right A tisket, a tasket, that's all you ask it Snap your CD, and drop the pieces in your casket Like little Jack Horners, I'm still- corners Buckin' shots on your block, I'm sippin' on Corona's Uh, your McDonald had a farm with a six-fo on suicide Sittin' in the barn with no alarm Straight up collected it, cool and calm Crowbar in my hand and my skeleton brick still works like a charm Who's the rawest? My- is flawless Had to be passin' out bruises, lacerations and broken jawses Emcees wanna floss, you better understand who's the boss Before I do a Michael Jackson and cut your shit off Part of the penitentiary still, penetratin' your grill I keep on keepin' it right, while you keep on keepin' it real I'll bring the treble and the bass to delapatate your waist Coolio's on the case, get yo'- out my face, fool Lodi Dodi (Dodi) I don't know karate (karate), but I know a razor And none of y'all can't fade me (fade me) I know you wanna try to play me, and busta's wanna play-hate me I'm one of the dopest- out, I guess that's why they hate me 'Cause I slang hits like- slang Cavi I remain like khakis, I guess that's why they mad at me On a record you might outgat me, but you can't outrap me My- is fatter, and yo'- need a little bit mo batta' Freestyle in unrestricted manner or method Free funk text readily selected, so check it Uh, dip diver, socializer, I've been rockin' these- microphones since 1979 And by the time that this little nappy head- retire I'ma be at the ripe ol' age of 48 or 49 My- is wise, CPT M.C. for hire My name ain't Rick James, but I'll burn your ass with a fire So, what's your desire? Is it hands wrapped around mics, or fingers wrapped around triggers? Either way it go I'm dumpin', and I'm dippin' Still tennis shoe-, 40 Thevz in position Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, now- I'm a giant And yo'- is like Jack, but yo' magic beans is wack Skills is what you lack, I'm like a Benz, you ain't even like Cadillac You more like a Regal, I'ma pit bull, and you's a Beagle I'm set to strangle hangin' emcee's at all angles As their legs start to dangle, dance around everybody like Mr. Bo Jangles Los Angeles, Compton, Long Beach, and Carson Hawthorne Livin' with the Watts, I'm sendin' out shout-outs I used to drink ol' gold, now I just stroll Straight to the exit section of my neighborhood liquor store Huh, and you know what make me laugh-? Even your mama want my autograph, autograph, autograph Autograph, autograph