Lyrics:
without you
settling things with you
finding out things to do
cause loving you’s not something i can do
want all the simple things
to shine in the sun
(yo, you know what I'm sayin'?) why are you so mad?
Yo, I'ma I'ma keep it real simple for you
Yeah t-t-t-t-t-tell them niggas why you mad, son
Tell
Abra-abracadabra
Abracadabra
Abracadabra, alakazam
How do he make all these albums be ill?
Simple; by usin' the alchemy skills
But I'm warnin' ya; don't try
Spoken word from an upper class
Pleasure from dessert that will never last
The only way I can free my mind is by sitting idly by writing rhymes
By the unpopular, phantom of the chakras
(To me, it's what I see
To you, it's what you do)
Phryme!
Ha ha ha-ha, if I could make niggas as real
Wind in my hair, I was there
I remember it all too well
Photo album on the counter, your cheeks were turnin' red
You used to be a little kid with
Is that right?
[James A. Smith]
Yeah, it upsets me to hear a World Class Wreckin' Crew
"Homosexual" disrespect some real soldiers
[Too Black
that in your mind
You know it's just simple
To work it out with me
You know it's just simple
Feel real and change yourself
Happiness by your side
Never
I'm here again
Second album in four months
Have you gasping
Sitting back wondering
What the fuck is happening
I'm back again
This didn't happen by
Red Chip Funk
Performed by Twenty-something DJ Franklin
Lyrics and arrangement by Raymond Francisco Quinton
Produced by Rabid City Records
(C)
'Zy rollin' with my cateye, deadeye
Ain't afraid to flame a rat up
But I hot out fathom
My album hit the shelves
We hustle for record sales
Hit my
Sittin' in my head for time to fly by
Always gon reach my lows and highs
All I know is that I'm stuck in my mind
I just need sit and have some free
Yo Craig (yeah)
There's some real jealous people
out there right (uh huh)
Trying to say how you're wack (what)
How your music's soft (what)
(yo, you know what I'm sayin'?) why are you so mad?
Yo, I'ma I'ma keep it real simple for you
Yeah t-t-t-t-t-tell them niggas why you mad, son
Tell
Verse 1
-------
Some of the busiest rhymes ever made by man
Are goin' into this mic, written by this hand
Are comin' out of this mouth, made by this
Verse 1
-------
Some of the busiest rhymes ever made by man
Are goin' into this mic, written by this hand
Are comin' out of this mouth, made by this
[Verse 1 - Sir Mix-A-Lot]
1977 was a no cocaine in my hood-ject
The brothers was stuck on Chuck without a mind set
I got tired of watchin "Good
and im on it
Write words from my heart but you can see that that vision haunted
Too deep for you simple guys
You think with a simple mind
I can keep
Something came in the mail today
Couldn't tell you if it's real
Inside I thought I was just a simple, stupid nothing
Then you came, your words
by my grind like the shaker
Mind my behavior
I park the car for the valet
Set the table for the waiters
Totally self sufficient with a
Whole lot
album was the first album
With the real sound that
Electric punk rock became
"We are from the Lower East Side
We don't give a damn if we live or die
We
they're taking toll
If you've been bad, Lord, I bet you have
And you've not been hit by flying lead
You've not been hit by flying lead
You'd better
gyal dem mingling
Better watch how you group and singling
Better mind who you feel and fingling
We don't join goose and gandering
We don't join
Let me flee from gold, it won't make my mind
Organic life is real and magic, that's what I believe
What seems so simple is much more for me
Zero true
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