You wanna know what? You wanna know what?
You look mighty stupid with my foot in your butt.
I cut like X-acto and I’m stronger than stone
and you’re the fucking chicken from Aames Home Loan;
always being rescued, always being bailed out,
but no amount of money gives you my type of clout.
You’re soft like a Kleenex™ on your weakly old track.
Your tongue’s only good for licking my sack.
Give me a beat and a drum and a mike
and I’m guaranteed to break down something you’ll like
because I ain’t a mystery and yes I’ve got the history;
that girl on your arm — she just blew a kiss at me.
What’s on your mind? you wanna battle me, boy?
I’ll wind you up and break you like a Tonka™ toy.
I never know whether to laugh or be sick
when I see you walking ‘round, grabbing your dick,
blowing your nose, soiling your clothes
and paying all those people to come to your shows.
I’ll step to you and put your pea-brain to the test.
I’d like to see you swim wicked witch of the west.
I run the show like I’m Captain Kirk.
On the street I’m known as DJ Lurk.
Rhyming and stealing from all types of scene:
nothing is safe from my sample machine.
Sortof like Aliens got acid for blood,
I got funk in my veins and your name is mud.
Five years from now my shit’s still in
while your CD’s are filling up the bargain bin.
But I let you go, let you run away.
Hide in your home and practice all day.
Come back tomorrow or Saturday,
or do you have to ask if you can come out and play?
I was fucking born with a mike in my hand,
that’s why I’m named Mike, do you understand?
Let me rock the party, just slam the groove,
and we’ll see how many fat asses I can move.
Jumping out their seats and wiggling their hips.
Smiling like Erik Estrada on CHiPs.
Turn it around with a likkle house sound;
all those silly sucker still suits get clowned.
I mosh and I mumble, I drink and I stumble;
turn up the bass ‘till the foundations crumble.
I can rock a party ‘till the break of dawn.
My mind is so sharp it can mow your lawn.
Kick lyrical footballs to pop out your eyeballs;
invite your friends over to put holes in the drywall.
I said I’ve got a serious flair on the mike.
Do you want a lick of my ice cream? Psych!
My rhymes are built to give you something to purr on.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeves when I ain’t got a shirt on
and just when you think I’m all through . . .
I catch another beat and I pound me a Mountain Dew™.
Wired on caffeine, vicious and lean,
an eliminating terminating rapping machine.
I’m a wild man Bigfoot and I’m getting prepared
by kicking back Schaefers™ with Bela Fehér.
I’m a screaming kamikaze on a technopop track;
the needle in the haystack, gett off my bozack.
Give me a break beat, my mike will destroy.
I’m a wannabe member of the Beastie Boys.
Party people in the place, doowhatchyalike.
Funky rhythms, straight talk and such ya like.
So I give it to you straight from the soul . . .
have another beer, then lose control!
Stepping to me, you’d better come correct
because the Mission Hills posse’s always in effect.
When I rap upon the mike you’d better shake a leg;
this jam’s so hot you could fry an egg.
I’m a lyrical spherical diabolical demon.
I’m so glad to be here — I must be dreaming.
Y’all out there having a good time?
Well I’m about to rip out a funky rhyme!
I’m a party playing, roof-raising Point Loma rebel,
and the school administration thinks that I am the Devil.
I never will slow down, I’m back in my home town,
the suburbs to downtown, here comes the lowdown:
a shotgun tongue but I’m always nice.
My back’s always covered by OB Vice.
I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming for you;
make your booty do things you didn’t know it could do.
That’s the idea, guys, get out here and dance.
If you wait too long you’re going to miss your chance.
The walls are built to stand all on their own,
get your dérriere out here and shake your bones.
Yo, the building doesn’t need support
now get busy like my brother MC Alex Kohrt.
I’m a poet of freestyle, my lyrics are worthwhile
I get paid every day making other people smile.
A magician of attrition in the MC arena.
I wanna dye my hair like Jerry Medina.
Who’s in the house? I am, that’s who.
I’m always in the mood for curing your blues.
Pass me the bud and the pipe and I’ll toke it.
Wipe off the blood from the mike and I’ll smoke it.
You know I’m getting lethal, yo, word is born,
and now my boy John Roy will get dumb on his horn.
I don’t get paid much, but I stay in touch:
that color you’re claiming? Your bloodshed’s still red.
It doesn’t take a man to pull a trigger, loc.
It takes an education to use the mike to smoke
silly suckers that walk up on me,
get played razorblade by my tongue, G.
So leave that shit at the door with your worries,
and shake your body on the floor in a hurry.
I got skills, I got bills but you do, too.
So let’s see what type of boogie-business you can do.
Vocal acrobatics coming out my speakers,
speaking to your spine, your shoulders and your sneakers.
Get to know your neighbors, don’t pick and choose.
Be obnoxious like my boy Kevin Bacon in Footloose.
So pump your fist if you like the sound;
I’m a disco inferno, and I’m coming to your town.
i got a polyester shirt and the collar could kill you.
“Good Times” in my eight track, my mind’s gonna thrill you.
Fresh artistic sleight of hand —
you’ve got a real jive show from the one man band.
I’m out of here soon, I’ve got to watch me some cartoons;
I eat my Lucky Charms™ with a ladle or soup spoon
and just when you think I’m comin’ wack . . .
I’m gone with the diamonds like Camel Jack!
Froggacuda's Weblog 