Lyrics Postmodern Funk - Scrooge

Postmodern Funk

It was all invented
Artists come, artists go
And groups disbanding
Music stranded
Gotta step in the scene
Like we da last men standing
Gotta hanging
Where’s the ending?
We’re still active
Understanding:
Modern was lame, dumb, ain’t no fun
So I gotta come up
With this postmodern funk, why not?
Don’t need no fame
I keep it real and maintain
Better stop the hate
And blame
Cause it’s my fate
I keep the high rates
It’s all about plates
And numbers on
Let the car go ride
So turned up right now
Watch how I rise and fight
For the good side
Don’t know why
I standing up at midnight
And rapping in a moonlight
But I
Gotta come up, gotta gotta come up
Man, I gotta come up
With this postmodern funk
You tryna give up, tryna tryna give up
Blaming the bad luck
«Excuse me, what?»
You betta stop, cause I tryna come up
I know that it’s hard, but I gotta come up
Gotta come up, gotta gotta come up
With this postmodern funk
We always looking back
But we could look further
Learn the lesson from these murders
Shootings of innocent people
Like in the music, society needs a rebuilding
Stop the killings, violence
Yo, wa, fucking murdera
Stay silent
I… bringing back the time
Full of style
When It was all good
It was alright, it was all fine
Don’t try to hide
G-Funk survived
Multiplied
And you have no roots, you in a brain skydive,
Push a needle to the groove and fly
So give me room, give me room
To let them fools know
How we turn on the lights
Who you fooling?
I’ll be cooling with my homies
Down the block
Wish I could turn back the clock
But it won’t stop
Gotta come up, gotta gotta come up
Man, I gotta come up
With this postmodern funk
You tryna give up, tryna tryna give up
Blaming the bad luck
«Excuse me, what?»
You betta stop, cause I tryna come up
I know that it’s hard, but I gotta come up
Gotta come up, gotta gotta come up
With this postmodern funk
I’m the last of a dying breed
They don’t make 'em like me
OG from the Eastside, 2−5-3
I’m old-school like a Fleetwood Caddy
Hood legend from the block
Fuck a Grammy
I’m in my own lane, pedal to the floor
I give you everything you want
Plus a little more
I keep my head down low:
Ears to the street
Some can lead
I can do this shit in my sleep
Nigga
I was cut from the different cloth
Everyday all-day living like a boss
Fourteen-sevens on my Impala
Three-fifty barking like a rottweiler
It’s the shit we live and die for
What’s that the cycle
When niggas live in trifle
But mama didn’t raise no clown
I’ma real ass nigga
You know how I get down