2 Minutes & 21 Seconds of Funk Songtext
von Coolio
2 Minutes & 21 Seconds of Funk Songtext
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
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
Writer(s): Artis Ivey, Bryan Keith Dobbs Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
