Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song 2 Minutes & 21 Seconds Of Funk, artist - Coolio. Date of issue: 27.10.2022
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
2 Minutes & 21 Seconds Of Funk |
| Yeah, yeah |
| Fuck all these niggas |
| You know what I’m talkin' about Wino |
| Yeah, yeah, yeah |
| Two minutes and twenty-one 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 Horna', I’m still bendin' cornas' |
| Buckin' shots on your block, I’m sippin' on Corona’s |
| Uh, your McDonald had a farm wit' a six-fo on suicide |
| Sittin' in the barn wit' 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 shit 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 penitentary 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 ho out my face, fool |
| Lodi Dodi, I don’t know karate, but I know ka-razor |
| And none of y’all can’t fade me |
| I know you wanna try to play me |
| And busta’s wanna playa hate me |
| I’m one of the dopest niggas out I |
| Guess that’s why they hate me |
| Cause I slang hits like niggas 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 shit is fatta' |
| And yo shit 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 motherfuckin' microphones since nineteen seventy-niner |
| And by the time that this little nappy head nigga retire |
| I’ma be at the ripe ol' age of forty-eight or forty-niner |
| My shit 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 baby love? |
| Is it hands wrapped around mics |
| Or fingers wrapped around triggas? |
| Eitha' way it go I’m dumpin' and I’m dippin' |
| Still tennis shoe pimpin', 40 Thevz in position |
| Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, now nigga I’m a giant |
| And yo ass 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 mo 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 X.O. |
| section of my neighborhood liquor store |
| Huh, and you know what make me laugh, bitch? |
| Even your mama want my autograph, autograph, autograph |
| Autograph, autograph |