Song parody of
Benzie Box
by C-Lo
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His name's doom
They wonder just who is he
But don't worry,
Believe me he'll get Bizzy.
When it comes to poetry he's got plenty.
La la la.
La la la la la
Jump em' in the jump rope, double Dutch
Then turn on the mic with a thumb stroke
Subtle touch, cuddle, clutch, is this thing on
Like the fling with Mrs. King Kong, this spring gone?
Sing a song of slaphappy crappiness
He came to blow like it was strapped to his nappy chest
Surely I jest, the best on a wireless mic not an eye test,
Yet I di-gress
But why stress? Try an' remember when, maybe bit the tender skin-ned babysitter Gwendolyn.
The type to hit and run and go tell a friend
Word to El Muerto cucaracha, exoskeleton
He know, flow, like inter stellar wind,
Tow a rap Jinn, by his toe, into hell again
A-hem, One, two, check me too, loose wreck
See through, your gooseneck, EQ
His name's doom
They wonder just who is he
But don't worry,
Believe me he'll get Bizzy.
When it comes to poetry he's got plenty.
La la la.
La la la la la
Eh, if I may interject?
Rap these days is like a pain up in the neck,
Cornier, and phonier than a play fight,
Take two of these and don't call me on a late night
The beat won't fail me, with more rhymes,
Than times he washed his hands and feet daily
And all that kerosene ain't cheap, Villain been deep
Since a teenage creep, peep
He always was a gentleman,
And kept the pen and a pencil in his mental den
Right there, next to where the Rolodex was
Before it turned up all burnt by his solar plexus
He don't know his own strength, when he's on the bone
It's like the microphones length, and width, ain't it funky like dingy socks?
Feel the full effect off cassette in your Benzie Box.
His name's doom
They wonder just who is he
But don't worry,
Believe me he'll get Bizzy.
When it comes to poetry he's got plenty.
La la la.
La la la la la
His name's doom
They wonder just who is he
But don't worry,
Believe me he'll get Bizzy.
When it comes to poetry he's got plenty.
La la la.
La la la la la
Jump em' in the jump rope, double Dutch
Then turn on the mic with a thumb stroke
Subtle touch, cuddle, clutch, is this thing on
Like the fling with Mrs. King Kong, this spring gone?
Sing a song of slaphappy crappiness
He came to blow like it was strapped to his nappy chest
Surely I jest, the best on a wireless mic not an eye test,
Yet I di-gress
But why stress? Try an' remember when, maybe bit the tender skin-ned babysitter Gwendolyn.
The type to hit and run and go tell a friend
Word to El Muerto cucaracha, exoskeleton
He know, flow, like inter stellar wind,
Tow a rap Jinn, by his toe, into hell again
A-hem, One, two, check me too, loose wreck
See through, your gooseneck, EQ
His name's doom
They wonder just who is he
But don't worry,
Believe me he'll get Bizzy.
When it comes to poetry he's got plenty.
La la la.
La la la la la
Eh, if I may interject?
Rap these days is like a pain up in the neck,
Cornier, and phonier than a play fight,
Take two of these and don't call me on a late night
The beat won't fail me, with more rhymes,
Than times he washed his hands and feet daily
And all that kerosene ain't cheap, Villain been deep
Since a teenage creep, peep
He always was a gentleman,
And kept the pen and a pencil in his mental den
Right there, next to where the Rolodex was
Before it turned up all burnt by his solar plexus
He don't know his own strength, when he's on the bone
It's like the microphones length, and width, ain't it funky like dingy socks?
Feel the full effect off cassette in your Benzie Box.
His name's doom
They wonder just who is he
But don't worry,
Believe me he'll get Bizzy.
When it comes to poetry he's got plenty.
La la la.
La la la la la
