Posts Tagged ‘Zero Boy’

The Way It Is

Posted: August 20, 2015 in Music, Rant
Tags: , , , , ,

Pus & Zero B0y — The Way It Is

Download: PUS & Zero Boy – Adventures in Rhyme – 04 – The Way It Is

I turned this in as my final essay to a Student Colloquium at CCS / UCSB on Female African-American Literature in 1993. Last male standing in the class, this effort got me an A+. Great Depeche Mode inspired synth solo. Nothing has changed: this track holds up well today in 2015.

I was born down south San Diego
left all alone so I got switched to the home
of Mom and Dad – they’re not my real parents
but they’re the ones who loved me best, y’all.
so I made a lot of friends through trial and error.
I learned the hard way not to think or care
about foolish opinions that don’t belong to me.
I try to be happy and who I want to be,
now I’m not saying that I’m a hard lucker
and I’m certainly not a big bad motherfucker.
when I get a lot of money, I tend to share
and when I get real drunk I like to say [yeah!] – beastie boys
I’m never too busy to get busy
and a lot of my friends get busy with me.
I don’t know everything so I go collect knowledge;
I went through high school to end up in college.
I caught a cool class from my good friend Sara
she told me of the problems I should work to take care of.
things aren’t equal in the land of the free
and I know that it isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.
I live my life as best as I can;
I smile and say hello to my fellow man.
I’m not going to tell you how hard I hit,
all the women I’ve been with or any of that shit.
I don’t pride myself on being a jerk
‘cause like Kool Moe Dee [I go to work] – Kool Moe Dee
this world I’m in ain’t the perfect place to live
but I’m not going to keep it just the way it is.

maybe I’m weak – I get beat in a fistfight
but before I get up I’ve begun to write.
I pick up my glasses and back home I go
‘cause next week I’ll dis you on the radio.
I’m not the type of guy to reply with violence
but like Bell Hooks it’s hard to keep my silence;
to tell you like it is: ignorance is hell,
so pick up a book and educate yourself.
I can’t stand to see you dismiss my sisters –
think you can rape her just ‘cause you kissed her?
listen very carefully to the words of this song –
you’re not only ignorant – you’re wrong.
now you go home and you beat your wife
and I’ll cheer my head off when you meet her knife.
you haven’t really recognized their rights yet
and you’re wondering why they seem upset?
women cross lines in all races and creeds;
a little respect is all they need.
I make sure my mother gets across on a green light
and I make sure my girlfriends get home at night.
I learn and I write, make music then preach
I’ll get a college degree to continue to teach.
I turn on my mind and mix me a drink
to write something funky to make you think.
I’m not always sure of what I can say
‘cause the PC strictures make my hair turn grey.
some stuck out of luck dumbfuck says it’s none of my biz
but you know it is, that’s the way it is.

(Analog solo a la pus and zero boy)

I light my pipe, sit back and kick back
because I know I just pumped out a fresh track.
I’ve got some homework but I know I’ll be done soon
then I pop in my tape and I [pump up the volume] – MARRS
sometimes I get drunk, bounce checks, and get high,
think about what I want to say and I sigh,
I can’t seem to get it out right through my teeth,
a sharp bladed dagger that’s stuck in its sheath.
because other people don’t let me live
I’m getting plenty of time just learning to forgive.
I guess I’m just waiting for the world to get wise:
talk to your friends and you’ll realize
that I’m not out for world peace,
just tolerance, understanding – some relief at least.
I take time to turn on and tune in,
writing white raps with a big old grin
because I’m slurring you can guess that I’m sauced
but at least my message is coming across.
I get funky on a track ‘cause I’m badder than Cheese Whiz
want to know why?
that’s just the way it is.

[inspired by Sara Seinberg — thanks to Bruce Hornsby]

So the track’s float-flowin’ like the brew from the tap,
street-lethal cracka comin’ straight steppin’ attack.
I’m through messin’ with the system, gonna go my own route,
off-road past the Sphinx, Pyramids and I’m out.
There’s nothin’ but sand dunes as far as I can see;
no water or camel, the crazy diamond’s with me.
The sun’s droppin’ like a stone but still hotter than hell but
[here’s a little story that I’ve gots to tell] -Beastie Boys.
Three days ago, a cantina in Cairo —
I smoked my last hash and I’m runnin’ out of dough,
a man got shot, and he fell in my lap.
Bleedin’ on my jacket, he slipped me a sack.
Three thugs with scimitars come in through the gate.
Dyin’ guy starts firin’ so I made my escape,
so I find myself lost in the alleys and streets;
a turban cold creeps, so I put out his teeth.
Grabbed a tire iron from the back of a truck;
I took a look in the bag: a gem as big as a rock.
Glowing from inside, some ethereal quality —
I closed up my loot because I hear someone follow me.
Spent the night wide awake in the flat of this hooker,
paranoid in the john when the Thugee mistook her
for me in those sheets; she was kind, I was saddened
but I was out of the window to the awning like Aladdin.
They left one chump and the keys in the jeep
so I broke his head open then I sped up the street.
Over my shoulder I saw them Thugee come out,
waving wicked knives and they’re rather put out.
I wrecked the jeep into a fruit cart…
hoodlums on my heels but I’ve got a head start.
Slip throught the marketplace to a sidewalk cafe,
pasta sea swarthy faces, I made my way
to the rear of the joint, looking for the back door.
If I owned a Fedora, I’d feel like Harrison FOrd.
Indiana Jones and the Diamond of Despair.
I’ve got about ten minutes to find a new lair
where I can wait for the heat to die down…
dusk is a must to get out of town.
Two chairs and a table in the darkest corner,
the Gelato Vera of Cairo, all I need is a mocha.
Sweat pouring from my brow as I watch the front
for any sign, any signal or warning of chumps
and then I pause…I feel a knife in my ribs.
“Hand over the parcel and you might just live.
Reach slow — real slow — or in hell you’ll be fryin’”
so I reached in my jack for the sack with the diamond.
I put it out on the table; he stepped from the shade,
sat down in the other chair and polished his blade.
This is straight from the movies is what I thought,
He’s too damn pleased that I went and got caught.
Fat boy opens his mouth like he’s going to speak;
he looks over my shoulder and his knees go weak.
I don’t think, I grab the sack and I’m hittin’ the deck;
a hail of bullets breaks out and hits Homes in the neck.
Cafe screaming, blood’s spilling as the splinters are flying;
I’m crawling for the door — there’s no farm that I’m buying.
I get up and start running with the scared folk,
but there’s a shirtless Thugee waitin’ and the mo-fo is yoked.
I grab a pan in my hand to the side of his skull —
he blinks twice and shook his head — it didn’t faze him at all.
He reached for my arms so I went through his legs man.
I’m smooth, just like the Eggman.
Tall brick alleys with nowhere to go,
but I’ve got the crazy diamond and my life, though.
(to be continued…)

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!

Meatgrinder (Version 2)

Posted: March 1, 1994 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so you all know;
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko.
You’re always trying to come off like you’re hard, son,
but you start from square one, you’re poor like a bum.
I don’t want to upset you, but I know that I do
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true.
You can’t rhyme, you can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you don’t believe in what you say and it’s not making dents.
I put on my glasses, I studied your track
and I filed it in the dumpster — definition of wack.
You’re so high, G; you’re played out, see?
And you get nowhere fast fueled on your hypocracy.
You think you’d look as good as I do?
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sellout suckers, they lie to themselves every day:
you say you’re from Compton but never been to L.A.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself;
you’re a Balsa wood glider trying to battle the Stealth.
Don’t push it too far, ‘cause you’re out of your league —
you’re a rodent Roger Ramjet and I got your ass treed.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out
because I’ll meatgrind you, pork boy, ‘cause I got the clout.

Now I’ve got your attention, I see your ears are cockin’,
like the Sugar Hill Gang I don’t stop the rockin’ to the
tick tock I don’t pack a glock because my tongue’s a lethal weapon
I can kill when I rock.
But why add another MC to the list of my killings
when I’d rather reform you to the art if you’re willing.
I could loose your caboose from the rest of the pack
or put some sense in your skull with a backhanded smack.
I don’t say I’m from the Ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there;
you’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp;
mack dady loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
You might have fooled yourself that your fans believe you.
Fool yourself again when they wise up and leave you.
When the circus is in town I might go see you clowns
while they’re hammering the lids of their own coffins down.
Pay a lot of money to make people believe,
but that falls flat, New Jack, against the Trick up my sleeve.
A scandal vandal man with my hands — they’re slammin’
and your rinkety-dinkety jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble to the fresh guitar licks,
but your track couldn’t hack it, even with a remix.
You’re jealous of my posse ‘cause they’re people I trust
but your records don’t bust it . . . they only go bust!

I said I’m the meatgrinder, I’ll grind you like meat
I see fear in your eyes because you’re smelling defeat.
Get funky from my feet to the birds and the bees,
from the buildings and trees to the rivers and seas.
Swaying back and forth like a hypnotized cobra,
one snap of my fingers and your dream state’s over.
I never really mind when the weaklings, they dis me.
I never seem to care that your girl wants to kiss me.
But keep it all in check, man, like you know you should —
now go bandage your ego, tramp . . . it’s all good.

I got the hip hop flavor, bouncing around to the beat;
you see I’m never quite finished, grab yourself a seat.
Get a little bit of popcorn get yourself a soda.
You’re a wannabe Jedi, and I’m like Yoda.
If you’re gonna get excited do us all a favor
shut your fuckin’ mouth and fall on your light saber.
Sometimes I think that I am wasting my time,
trying to teach a nincompoop like you how to rhyme.
But I’m a poet and a prankster, the airwaves gangster.
I got the flying vocal guillotine and you can call me master.
Now I’m on line and I’ll get you in trouble.
Like Fred Flintstone you’re always fooled by Barney Rubble.
You’ve got monetary clout and you think you know what to say
but I grind meat like you for a living each day.
Like a chicken you’re plucked and you’re shit out of luck
feeling like three pounds of fat ground chuck.

Of course you’re right and I’m an amature wrong
but I prefer not to fall like a boulder, King Kong.
I’m more like Godzilla with his nuclear breath:
I melt every motherfuck I put to the test.
I couldn’t give a damn about the way you dance;
some aerobics instructor in circus tent pants.
I got the kick drum humming from my MTX eights.
Golden sun is gleaming from my California license plates.
Sitting back sunny from the south, San Diego,
sculpting rhymes from my my mind as if it was Play-Dough.
Then I get the call when my Bat-Phone rings;
the room’s illuminated by the searchlight with wings.
The President’s on the line “the madman’s escaped!
He’s taking people’s money, do whatever it takes!”
So I eat a bowl of Wheaties ‘cause I’m coming to find ya,
‘cause I’m the one and only motherfucking meatgrinder.

Just Havin’ Fun, Y’all

Posted: December 8, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

So I’m rolling down the ave in the afternoon,
Nissan truck and I’m stuck on a funky Zapp tune.
Nigh wreck my shit as I’m scoping some leg
and it’s Julie and Mark, they’re cold chillin’ a keg.
I’m never one to pass up on a cup of the brew,
so I called up my crew at a quarter to two.
Pulled up my truck and they jumped in the back;
we dismiss the crack for a fat twenty sack.
Overflowing with joy for a solid day.
Maxing and relaxing like Madonna’s “Holiday”.
I.V.’s all lazy and sleek in the sun –
we’re sick of the schoolwork, Friday’s for fun.
Zen and the Art of Drinking Beer
on the porch of the place right now, right here.
You know I love to be loved by the girl I adore,
even though she’s at Dave’s, buying smokes at the store.

Once in a while I smile, switch my style
and give thanks to my brother at Stanford named Kyle.
Yeah I’m dropping names left and right:
so check this one out, his name is Cormick White.
He strikes fear into the population at large;
some call him cue ball, I call him the Sarge.
In charge of the funky fresh style I present
by kicking the shit out of the bucketheads.
He’s riding shotgun in my funky fat ride
bumpin’ Paul’s Boutique and ranking side to side.
Scott Seder in the back cold packing the nine
to keep silly sucker crews like youse in line.
I’m here with my gear for a ridiculous rap,
we’re steering for beer, now give me the tap.
I put my feet on your counter ‘cause I even sit tall
with my posse of persons – we’re just having fun, y’all.

I slosh beer in my cup ‘cause it’s time to get ill
and like Billy Ocean I’ve got a licence to chill.
I like my tunes played loud so we’re raising the roof,
if I was Arsenio Hall I’d get continuous woof.
I’m so large, you might mistake me for chunky,
but I’m naturally funky, drinking Brass Monkey.
I choose a good groove, people start to dance,
I do the Mum-ra, Skeletor, and the Buffalo Stance.
Anything can happen in Isla Vista –
Sianie’s in town, that’s Cormick’s sister.
We’re all drunk as hell but fuck it, bro.
My friends are so fresh, we’re the Muppet Show.
My fiancee’s finer than Michelle Pfieffer,
and hopefully Ian’s got more Jagermeister.
I wobble like a weeble but I never will fall
with my friends and their friends – we’re just having fun, y’all.

Here comes the message for our generation:
we have on occasion made separation
between ourselves and some category we decide
that is beneath us because of our pride.
Why are we looking to divide our races,
colors, creeds, religions, and sexes?
It doesn’t make sense to try and shift the blame
by pointing a finger, and calling a name.
I’m willing to take my share on my shoulders.
Prejudice can’t get any fucking older.
Now it’s our problem, tomorrow our kids’,
so stop your whining. I’m sick of this shit.
Mothership connection. U-N-I-T-Y.
A pretty simple concept; I’d like you to try
to be civil to your neighbor, a little respect –
it doesn’t take Erasure to tell you how to act, fool.

I’ve got friends in high places, friends in low places,
girlfriends and boyfriends of all colors of faces.
We’re all at this house party, dancing and shaking;
here comes some hotties, but sorry I’m taken.
Everyone can come and have a good time,
but I’m colorblind when you throw up a sign.
Julie’s going wild and she’s taking her clothes off;
I’ve located the bathroom if my cookies I toss.
I can even rap through a technicolor yawn –
there’s never a point when I’m too far gone.
I drink like a fish and I smoke like a chimney.
I promise good times for everyone with me.
Mark’s got my back as I’m sacking the track,
Dave Parrish in the house and the 8 ball’s back.
We’re bursting at the seams, tight jeans is the call;
mine are cutting off my circulation, but I’m just having fun, y’all.

Mike Hedrick’s over there with a glassy-eyed stare;
Valcones is toking in my favorite chair.
Shit. It seems like the world’s here,
but that’s what happens when there’s good free beer.
It’s a get-together, sort of a sociable thing;
people like to talk, laugh, dance, and sing.
I saw my girl Cindy and she’s pouting for sure
because I didn’t include a little cut from The Cure.
Now I’m outside for a breath of fresh air.
I’m so sauced I like Cory’s derriere.
John Monge in effect and he’s doing the deuce;
this party’s like an old pair of socks getting loose.
Balzano in trouble with a lungful of smoke.
Chronic hydroponic and that’s all she wrote.
Pedro’s passed out, y’all, the son of a gun,
but never mind him, we’re just having fun.

The roof is on fire but we don’t care.
We’re spinning through the music with plenty to spare.
No one’s driving home, no one’s calling a taxi.
We’re not going to sleep so don’t even ask me.
Everything’s done with having fun in mind.
You’d better get yours ‘cause I’m sure to get mine.
Curt, Jane, and Jean roll up in the Jeep
and I reassure Jean we didn’t invite the creep.
Wine, whiskey and song, beer, women, and men;
we started a three and it’s half-past ten.
This jam’s still rolling – we haven’t begun
and when the cops show up we’re inviting them in.
I’m dreading my hangover, wait ‘till morning
when I have to get drunk to stop the room spinning.
Come to the party? Give me a call.
It’s like Animal House, and I’m just having fun y’all.

Meatgrinder (Version 1)

Posted: November 9, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so y’all know:
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko, huh.
You always try to come off like your hard, son,
but every rhyme that you write’s like your first one.
I never want to upset you, but I know that I do,
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true:
you can’t rhyme, can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you think you’re hitting hard? You’re not making dents.
What the fuck is that? That’s your fucking track?
I’ll put it in my pocket as the definition of wack.
You’re so high, G – you’re played out, see –
I never fret backstabbers like you, ain’t that right, B.
You think that you would look as good as I do? Huh.
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sell-out suckers who are lying through their teeth, not rappin’.
You say you’re from Compton but you grew up in Cleveland.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself
because my foot in your ass ain’t good for your health.
And I’m just waiting to hear you say that talk is cheap,
‘cause then I feel good about cappin’ your ass, creep.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out,
because I’m the fucker that your parents warned you about, huh.

I’ll cut off your motherfucking hands if you touch me.
I can’t stand the man who’s gangbanging to fuck me
like I was ever looking to be taken.
Move over bacon, ‘cause you ain’t moneymaking.
You’re not honest with the shit that you talk about.
You walk around in the streets, thinking you got clout,
but you lie, and we all know motherfucker
you call your girlfriend a ho, ignoring her at a show.
I don’t say I’m from the ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there.
You’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp
mack daddy loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
I know my boy Brian, and he’s honest as fuck;
you should be on a game show ‘cause you’re pressing your luck.
You should be doing time – there’s no soul in your beats,
you should go into politics because you lie through your teeth.
Now I’m a scandal vandal man with my hands – they’re slamming
and your rinkity-dinkity jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble with my sleeves full of tricks,
but your track couldn’t hack it even with a remix.
I’m carefree like an angel, not a package of gum, see,
and you can chew on this because I know that you’ll bite me.
It can be tough to get respect from turkeys like you,
but you trudge me, begrudge me because you know I’m true.

Kmart Funk

Posted: September 10, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

I kick the lyrics straight from my heart to my mouth
to the mike to your ears to your drums and I’m out,
out fast like a villiain that just stole your TV.
after the show, if it’s gone, don’t blame me,
because when I rap, people don’t know waht hit ‘em.
there’s scientists wondering why I got rhythm.
I get in the scraps that you wouldn’t believe
with the belligerent dicks who’re proud of their weave.
they’re bigger and better than the guy with the eye-wear.
you’re girl’s loving me, you know why? I got real hair.
you’ll try to act tough and make your hands into fists
but she wants to get busy and she’s blowing a kiss.
by that time I know you’ve had it…
but I’m a lover, not a fighter, so I don’t start static.
I’m a gentleman, I’ll come and apologize
and I’ll try to keep my eyes off those out-of-line thighs.
she’s pulling up her skirt just to try and impress me.
she looks me up and down like she’s trying to undress me.
you’re gonna be mad when you know that you’ve lost it,
so play Michael Jackson – keep that shit in the closet.
the freaks in the streets want to go and get loaded;
I’m so fat with good time rhymes that I’m bloated.
I don’t have the patience to deal with a chump
because I got to get busy to the Kmart funk.

it’s the Kmart funk I said the Kmart funk
chech it the Kmart funk yes the Kmart funk
well its the Kmart funk yeah the Kmart funk –
catch a likkle riddim in your cranium, punk!

yes the Kmart funk to the Kmart funk
check it the Kmart funk it’s the Kmart funk
the Kmart funk into the Kmart funk
it’s soundin’ even better when I smoke a da skunk, BO !!!!

TheKmart funk was this jam that I grooved
in my band Monster Zero way back in high school.
My man Chris McGee goes to UC Berkeley
he had lyrics so funky that they’d hurt me…
something real weird ‘bout some shoes and a sock
I don’t know what he would say but the house would cold rock
and the crowd would shout, they’d be happy to be there
singing [ho!] – Terminator X
but back to the definition of the Kmart funk
as I driveby dropkick with the bass in my trunk.
this is a track that’s down to earth, see,
not a highbrow store like Nordstrom’s or Macy’s.
the Kmart funk’s back to the basics style
that keeps me worthwhile, out of the crazy dogpile
of pop-rap fusion that entices the kids
to think rap is cheesy like a jar of Cheese Whiz™.
I try to stay clear of that hellhole…
you can tell I gots the Motts™ not a blue light special
ideas are rocking right out of my ears:
get on the floor and have no fear.
Tempest’s like a fortune on the wheels of steel
he drops the Gap band in to give the flavor-full feel,
a little Roger, Peter Piper, and some underground bump
mixes up in your ears for the Kmart funk.


some people get surprised when I turn on the faucet
I pour out a jam that’s a slam not a soft hit
and I’m never quite finished, always more to come
because the people in the place always step up and get dumb.
I gotta stay back, I’m like Felix the Cat:
I got a bag full of tricks and a four-track…
to kick something fresh you gotta feel the jam
like the words flowing out from the mike in my hand
I’m not starting some shit, but don’t step to me,
‘cause I can play you like a game of Monopoly™.
you say that you’re the best and you can do much better
but explain why your mom’s writing me love letters.
I didn’t mean to be rude and dis your face out loud,
but there she is doing the wop in the hole in the crowd.
just stand back and swim through the funk, G.
[feel the bass come down on me, yeah] – Jungle Brothers

you’re probably gonna chuckle, ‘cause I’m talking ‘bout Kmart
but personal style can’t be bought, it’s an art form.
I think that the K is a great place to be;
there’s one on the corner in every great city.
that’s where I go to buy cheap underwear,
but don’t get me wrong – I don’t fucking work there.
Kmart is sort of like a circus tent…
you see I walk out with everything and I ain’t spent a cent.
I’m a low-grade gangster so I gotta give thanks
that I haven’t been caught or shot – there’s no banks
in the future of my criminal career…
maybe a ticket or two for playing this so you can hear it
whilyou’re partying on DP, cruising on the freeway,
staggering on State Street, ditching school on Friday,
hanging out drinking with your friends in the place.
now where you gonna get that eight dollar case?
Blatz is on sale, Milwaukee’s best, too;
all the best brands, get your hands on that quality brew.
they’ve got everything else in that goddamn store –
I wouldn’t be surprised if the manager’s drinking.
you gotta be tanked to be 25 and working
at the Kmart – it’s not a job, it’s lurking.
I bought a Venus flytrap in the Garden Department,
the biggest excitement was a kid trying to start shit.
he ripped off a pack of Bubble Yum™…
caught by security, they pulled out their guns.
nobody in the store seemed to pay much attention,
they were picking up the specials that I’ve already mentioned.
you still think that Kmart’s a waste of good room?
where else do you get your water balloons.
throw ‘em at a neighbor, throw ‘em at a cop.
(be caution on that last one, it’s no fun if you’re shot)
and if you live like me, by the university,
it’s always lots of fun to water bomb a sorority.
and wait ‘till the freshmen come to college…
then it’s time to kick them their knowledge…
water bomb launcher so the suckers’ll soar,
there’s a whole group of targets for your water balloon war.
now Wednesday night’ll never ever be a bore,
but you’ve got to give thanks to the neighborhood store.


I write rhymes…that’s what I do…and
[you don’t like how I’m living, well fuck you] – Ice Cube
I write stories ‘bout my life so you can get a taste
and like a spoonful of sugar, I frost it with bass.
it’s all in good fun to make you sing and dance,
this groove so soothes it makes you move your pants.
light a spliff take a whiff and pass that green;
get friendly with your neighbor ‘cause they got a lot of flavor don’t worry be happy like it’s IV Halloween.
I get busy getting dizzy…
I chill out at the Chart House™, yo fellows, Cheeze Whiz™ me.
hey ladies in the place, Cory White – he’s gonna kiss them,
checkered ska punks with the junk in our system.
I’m powered by the light that shines from my soul.
I got more freshness than your kitchen’s got mold.
straight from the bottle and I don’t give a damn
if it comes in a cup, 40 ounce or can.
I play this like an anthem from the back of my truck,
I play my rhymes loud and I don’t give a (bo!)
you think that I’m bluffing? you think that I’m bluffing?
you’re a day-old in the dumpster ‘cause I’m the stud-muffin.
any bitches talking shit about me and my crew?
pah! you gotta pay your man to stay with you.
I’ve covered all the bases and you know I got spunk;
you know you can’t touch it – it’s the Kmart funk.