Lyrics
Mic check, I can get smooth to any groove
Relax the tongue, let my mic take a cruise
Around the planet, pack em in like Janet
Jackson, she’s askin' if I can slam it
I’m—
Yo, yo, Redman, man, what the fuck, man?!
Get the fuck off that… punk smoov shit, man!
Get with that rough shit, man; you know how we do!
Mic check, I walk around the streets with a black Tec-9
By the waistline, kickin' the hype shit
I never claim to be the best type of rapper
But have to, show them motherfuckers what I’m after
I’m after the gold, then after that, the platinum
Beef after that, Hurricane G packs the gat, son
Trigger, bang, bang, yo bust the slang, whut my name?
It’s the Redman on the funk train
Psyche, you’re motherfuckin' right, tonight’s the night
To do what I wanna do, to do it like dynamite
The work perfected, when the funk been injected
I roughen up the rough draft to like make your head split
Punk! Pass the 40 and the blunt and don’t front
On the block, 'cause when you do front, brothers are gettin' stomped
I’m not an addict, more like puff than magic
Then pass it when I’m through 'cause my crew…
(GOTS TO HAVE IT)
I don’t claim to be a big rap star
'Cause no matter who you are, you’ll still catch a bullet scar
So listen up and take heed to what I’m sayin'
'Cause tonight’s the night and me and my niggas ain’t playin'
Fat black bitch! Nasty
Bush bear, booga breath bitch
Nasty, talk to your tits bitch
With them nasty Africans, Mr. Bojangles
Turned up shoes havin' ass
Lemming leprechaun haircut motherfucker!
You wanna see me get cool, please, save it for the breeze
'Cause the lyrics and tracks, make me funky like cottage cheese
Fuck the smooth shit, I get down wit the boom bip
Like Q-Tip, I kick more styles than Bruce shoes kick
But tonight’s the night what I write tonight
This type of funk with the flavor like Mike 'n' Ike’s
Hanging out wit my niggas, my niggas
The Pack Pistol Posse keep they fingers on the triggers
I keep the 40 between my lap, coolin', rollin' down the highway
Blunt system pumps 'cause it’s Friday
Roll over to pick my boys up, we raise a lot of noise
'Cause, we can do that black, so «Get the Bozack», Jack
Remember, I do the type of evil that men do Like cursin' out my window at a bitch and her friend too
So turn the volume up a notch
And watch the ba-BUMP, ba-BUMP, make ya speakers pop
That’s the funk, when it pumps it makes your rump
Jump, jump, jump… jump, jump, jump
But if you want to see a fly but frantic
Cool romantic, more slicker than my man Rick
You better check the Yellow Pages under smooth shit
'Cause Red ain’t down for the bullshit
Niggas fucked up by letting me make an album
(How come, rude boy?)
To get on the mic and let my fuckin' style run
Nasty fuckin' greenthumb Jolly Green niggas
Tango mango, pickin' havin' ass
Nasty epileptic disease crazy havin' ass
Johnny Cash, afro havin'
Jack of Spades, boots havin'
Tony Danza, shoes wearin' ass!
B-b-b-black by popular demand, I expand
My hand to the mic and let my mouth kick the flim flam
I get sex, I get wreck, I puff mad blunts
I get vexed, I break necks, punch out gold fronts, chump
You—
Yo, fuck that, yo, turn this shit off, man
Turn this shit off, G Boom the new record on, knahmsayin?