Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Fu-Gee-La, artist - The Fugees. Date of issue: 12.02.1996
Song language: English
Fu-Gee-La |
| We used to be number 10 |
| But now we’re permanent one |
| Wyclef, Preacher’s Son, Ichi bang |
| Listen Mrs. Tin Can |
| I’m your candy handy man |
| Me without you is like American without the Band Stand |
| Cool fellow, dancehall stay mellow |
| All that gun-talk who would have thought you died yellow |
| Damn, another hero wannabe |
| Now he sleeps with his friends in the mortuary |
| Dude, I find it rude, when you intrude |
| My pistol nozzle hits your nasal |
| Doo, doo comes out your anal |
| Just because your buff, don’t play tuff |
| 'Cause I’ll reverse the earth and turn your flesh back to dust |
| It’s the way that we rock when we’re doing our ting |
| It’s the natural LA that the refugees bring |
| Sweet thing |
| She love me as no other before |
| Dig it, I stay high off the Fu-Gee-La |
| Bust when we rush |
| Through you must, know ruckus |
| Crew got G’s like the refu’s |
| So F who |
| Ever want to test |
| Bring me stress |
| West coast back to east |
| Grab my toast when I reach |
| Truly curvin', swervin, lifestyle is urban |
| Sippin' Bourbon, surviving |
| We real to keep the word when |
| A boy want fa test this set |
| Then you get wet-up |
| Just a bit to unprepared to, to shoot him fair bet |
| Fake bullets can’t scar me I can smell the weak out like safari |
| Play you out like Atari |
| Sacrifice you Hari Kari |
| And I’m sorry |
| To every single rapper, Dick and Harry |
| Saying they want to spar me |
| 'Cause how thick my repertoire |
| And my memoir be Reminding me of eating Calamari in the Kalahari with a band of Rhastafari |
| You shouldn’t diss refugees, and |
| You whole sound set’s bootie, and |
| It’s the way that we rock when we’re doing our ting |
| It’s the remix sound that the refugees bring |
| Sweet thing |
| She love me as no other before |
| I sit 90 degrees underneath palm trees |
| Sitting in the cool breeze in the West Indies |
| Flea to sea, ship my keys |
| On the Santa Maria, sip Sangria with senoritas |
| (They keep telling me this and telling me that) |
| They smile in my face then they talk behind my back (You know how they are) |
| But what they lack is the facts about my stats |
| My rap impact will kill you softly like Roberta Flack |
| Ayo, What’s goin' on Armageddon come you know we soon done |
| Gun by my side just in case I gotta rump |
| A boy on the side of Babylon |
| Trying to front like he’s down with |
| Mount Zion, yo what’s going on Armageddon come you know we soon done |
| Gun by my side just in case I gotta rump |
| A boy on the side of Babylon |
| Trying to front like he’s down with |
| Mount Zion, Zion |
| Oh Mister Martin, tell them to built a coffin |
| Today is death season |
| A hundred MCs a get murderin' |
| Stop it Call Mister Martin, tell him to built a coffin |
| Today is death season |
| A hundred MCs a get murderin' |
| It’s the way that we rock when we’re doing our ting |
| It’s the remix sound that the refugees bring |
| Sweet thing |
| She love me as no other before |