Tytuł: Food for funk

• Wykonawca: Common
• Wyświetleń: 254

Common:
   What, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
   Yo, yo yo yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
   Check it, yo
   You say a one for the trouble, two for the time
   Come on y'all, let's rock that, uh
   (I can feel the funk)(x4)
   Check it
  
   I come to grips with mics
   I come to grips that a lot of mic users is dikes
   I come to grips with the likes of Fred Hampton
   Cold, so I'm lampin, with no need for spotlight
   When I got light like an intersection, you talk
   But you came to my town with protection
   Election year, had the block hot
   I scream "fuck the world" for having a baby girl sorta cock block
   I write rhymes like I come from the windy city
   With my crew, I click like simply, stand midi with reality
   Casually, I walk through these war games
   Some claim say but then they take on whore names
   If that's the way your sex drives, stay in your lane
   If you're a man, I can't tell like if the door rang now
  
   Chorus:
   Now, to the ladies in the house when you come in the place
   It ain't a bunch of niggaz all up in your face
   The music is thumpin and you're feelin the bass
   What you wanna do girl(wanna shout)
   To the brothas when you come in a jam, it ain't a bunch of niggaz
   It ain't high tech and ain't got free liquor
   You jackin his name and stick to make you jones get thicker
   What you wanna do man?(let go)
   Yo, check it
  
   Some niggaz be on the mic, sounding like dikes
   Allow me to get on and bust like Spike(uh)
   Lee, I'm in the majors with no rotation
   Through stations of bullshit, I see through like a pager
   In the age of Aquarius, various things
   Is gonna carry us in intellect and what have you
   Street astrologists interpret point stars and half moons
   Then end up on garages or walls in bathrooms
   Every black moon, a rap tune move me
   The rap sun, I rain more than Rudy, that unruly shit is played
   It don't stop
   It's time to get it, get it made
   I got my mind made up like Foxy Brown's face
   I know how the underground tastes
   I want a crib from the ground up, rooms spin at a round pace
   Get down based on true story, through Corey, came close to the teachers
   Colder as the Iceman, posted before it start wrinklin
   Linkin with cats, who don't react to change in the years
   Fulfill prophesies in rooms full of emptiness, now
  
   Chorus:
  
   I can feel the funk(x8)
   Yo, check it, check it
  
   I came through the corridor, with the aura
   Raw Chicago mora, scope the horror
   Read between the lines and know the border
   Some pop wines for juice, I wait in the water
   Waitin for you Big Willie niggaz to have a show at The Crib
   We gon get with your glamour, long as we know where it is
   Tell you ain't a player by your sweater doused with wack feather
   The Crib got the gangsta playa shit patent like black leather
   I rap better than you, you, or maybe him
   But I am like a tree and every lyric is a timb
   Spilled brews and greasy foods got my car smelly
   Some be so high, they believe they fly like R. Kelly
   But then they fall off, dusted niggaz is gettin sawed off
   They fall soft, my mental lift is for me to haul off
   I kick ass
  
   Chorus:
   (scratching)
   I can feel the funk(x16)(makes me wanna shout, wanna shout)(x4)
   (scratching)Wanna shout