Mad madness   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.