| Peanut jelly box, sitting in the carport
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| 808 crack, and I’m open like a barndoor
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| Beer bottle cap, put 'em in the floor
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| Set 'em in the floor, what a metaphor is this?
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| Kind of like ill beat with Travis
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| Eat it up, beat it up atlas
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| Where should I go? |
| Put 'em in a cereal bowl
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| In Alabama, then I holler out «Cheerio»
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| Look at that shit, pull her on back like elastic
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| And let it go like a mac
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| S-Sipping on the green bottle, like I’m saint Patrick
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| Got beans in the mattress, magic
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| Make you want to jump on a fat bitch
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| Ooo got to have it
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| (boss) Send the wolf, pick a thing
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| On a pekingese bitch, go go gadget
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| (Owh) I’m all the way from the gutter
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| Flick a cigarette butt from a Chevrolet pickup
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| Geeked up on 7 Up
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| Gotta turn the beat up while I run up on it like a cheetah
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| well, that’d be the day
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| Put you up shit creek
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| Paddle be away, hat to the side
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| Holler at you homie
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| What’s the matter with you babe?
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| Sitting in the back with the bass on boom
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| Trunk gon shake, and the wheels on zoom
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| American classic, trashy tunes
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| L.A. to Alabama, from noon to noon
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| They saying, (oh my god, that’s some funky shit)
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| (Oh my god, that’s some funky shit)
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| (Oh my god, that’s some funky shit)
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| Oh my god, that’s some funky shit
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| And I’m a Beastie Boy
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| Airwalks and a bowl cut
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| Skater when a skater wasn’t cool
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| When it was just, «so what? |
| Fuck you dude»
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| Well fuck you too
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| with a backpack
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| I’ll bust your fruit
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| I’m all about constructing my paper
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| Kind of like a pocket full of Elmer’s Glue
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| Squeeze the bottle, turn the milk
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| Churn the butter, get the cheese tomorrow
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| I got a lock on my profit
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| No exits, no keys tomorrow
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| But I got steeze to borrow
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| Some Famous kicks to match
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| If I got a bass line, I’ll rap
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| As long as TB got sticks to crack
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| So hit a drumroll, I’ll jump in like a jump rope
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| Watch
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| Acapella like an elevator, operate the fader while I operate a label then I’m
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| in my fuckin' high tops
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| Rhythm like a clock, I’m scotch
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| You would’ve thought, it was written
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| But it’s not
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| Rag hanging out the back of them jeans
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| Not a gangbanger but a cracker who sings
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| And momma don’t you worry about a single thing
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| Really though, cause daddy brought charcoal, and gasoline
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| And we cooking up tonight, t-bones, pinto beans
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| Yeah, why stop now?
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| Put 'em in the trunk
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| Let 'em feel the sound
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| That they don’t pop it
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| Let 'em feel the rhyme till he finds the locket
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| 808 weighs a ton, so drop it
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| Watch your feet, while I rock the beat
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| Going all out, no private seat
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| I don’t walk if I can ride the beat
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| But wouldn’t you though? |
| Don’t lie to me
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| Of course you would, catapult syllables
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| Got up on my horse in the woods, whoa
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| Magical, sorcerer goods
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| Steal from the rich put more in the hood
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| Natural, born with a wood
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| Fuck 'em all, I’m right above 'em all
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| But you could butt talk, if a fall
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| Out with a motherfucker with a sluggish crawl
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| Chug till I can’t chug at all
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| Not a frat boy, I’m a rap boy
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| In Hollywood, like Aykroyd
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| But I read my script with a southern drawl
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| I run home when mother calls
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| Cause mother’s got a switch
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| Yeah, she’s a wolf too
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| That makes me a son of a bitch |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Funky Shit , by - Travis Barker. Song from the album Psycho White - EP, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп