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Mic check, I can get smooth to any groove |
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Relax the tongue, let my mic take a cruise |
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around the planet, pack em in like Janet |
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Jackson, she's askin if I can slam it |
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I'm.... |
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[Hurricane G] |
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Yo yo Redman! Man what the FUCK man? |
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Get the FUCK off that.. punk smoov shit man! |
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Get with that ROUGH shit man, you know how we do! |
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[Redman] |
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Mic check, I walk around the streets with a black tech nine |
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by the waistline, kickin the hype shit |
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I never claim to be the best type of rapper |
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But hafta, show them motherfuckers what I'm after |
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I'm after the gold, then after that the platinum |
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Beef after that, Hurricane G packs the gat son |
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Trigger, bang, bang, yo bust the slang, whut my name? |
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It's the Redman on the funk thang |
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Psyche, you're motherfuckin right, tonight's the night |
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To do what I wanna do, to do it like dynamite |
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The work perfected, when the funk been ejected |
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I roughen up the rough draft to like make your head split |
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Punk! Pass the 40 and the blunt and don't front |
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on the block, cause when you do front, brothers are gettin stomped |
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I'm not a addict, more like Puff than Magic |
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Then pass it when I'm through cause my crew gots to have it |
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I don't claim to be a big rap star |
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cause no matter who you are, you'll still catch a bullet scar |
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So listen up and take heed to what I'm sayin |
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Cause tonight's the night and me and my niggaz ain't playin |
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Fat black bitch! Nasty.. |
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bush bear, booga breath bitch |
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Nasty, talk to your tits bitch |
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with them nasty Africans, Mr. Bojangles |
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Turned up shoes havin ass.. |
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Lemming leprechaun haircut motherfucker! |
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You wanna see me get cool, please, save it for the breeze |
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cause the lyrics and tracks, make me funky like cottage cheese |
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Fuck the smoov shit, I get down wit the boom bip |
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like Q-Tip, I kick more styles than Bruce shoe's kick |
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But tonight's the night what I write tonight |
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This type of funk with the flavor like Mike'n'Ike's |
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Hanging out wit my niggaz, my niggaz |
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The {Pack Pistol Posse} keep they fingers on the triggers |
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I keep the 40 between my lap, coolin, rollin down the highway |
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Blunt system pumps cause it's Friday |
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Roll over to pick my boys up, we raise a lot of noise |
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cause, we can do that black, so get the bozack jack |
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Remember, I do the type of evil that men do |
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Like cursin out my window at a bitch and her friend too |
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So turn the volume up a notch |
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and watch the ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP, make ya speakers pop |
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That's the funk, when it pumps it makes your rump |
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jump, jump, jump.. jump, jump, jump |
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But if you want to see a fly but frantic |
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cool romantic, more Slick=er than my man Rick |
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You better check the Yellow Pages under smoov shit |
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cause Red ain't down for the bullshit |
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Niggaz fucked up by letting me make an album (How come rude bwoy?) |
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To get on the mic and let my fuckin style run |
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Nasty fuckin greenthumb Jolly Green niggaz |
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Tango mango, pickin havin ass |
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Nasty epileptic disease crazy havin ass |
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Johnny Cash, afro havin |
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Jack of Spades, boots havin |
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Tony Danza, shoes wearin ass! |
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B-b-b-black by popular demand, I expand |
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My hand to the mic and let my mouth kick the flim flam |
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I get sex, I get wreck, I puff mad blunts |
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I get vexed, I break necks, punch out gold fronts, chump |
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You... |
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Yo, fuck that, yo turn this shit off man |
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Turn this shit off, G |
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Boom the new record on, knahmsayin? |
