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