lyrics by c.ward
music by j.fewell
way back college boy asked to a high school dance
couldn't wait, but my date was in my friend's pants.
didn't know what to do, mc feelin blue,
til my best friend said that the red would get me through.
went to the jewel with my crew, adults only box,
in a second hand suit, bow tie, i'm a fox.
in a car on the street, in my mouth swisher sweet
down that shit at my crib in a one gulp feat.
room starts to turn like cheese,
my tummy starts to churn like grease,
on my knees like a rug burn beast
like an intern tease with a yeast (infection.)
all the while on the tile, feel like I got the flu.
think I'm gonna throw, I think this night is through
ding dong, date's arrived and her dress is ripped.
she don't know I'm on a robotussin trip.
in the back two girls going stag fat asses.
i demand from the date her sunglasses.
do a drop roll out the car like axel.
I need an angel, I need some fuckin advil.
I got a buzz bigger than a behive
cough up my cookies let loose what's on the inside
the tussin, the tussin
put it down like it was nothing
robocop couldn't stop me puking and flushin
no balls to be bustin, no fightin, no cussin
just love for a drug called robotussin
way back college boy, live on eleventh floor.
head out my window, wonder what I'm living for.
knock on my door, what's in store, it's my buddy bux
with the rabbit ear pockets saying he is out of luck.
Need a forty for party thrown by laura kang at rubin.
all he's got is snot and a box full of ludens.
Tell'm bout the tussin, we're hayden ho hustlin'
interupting discussions about reagonomic reprocussions.
Fuck'm, we're fuckin chug luggin.
soon my stomach I'm huggin I'm trippin or something
my coat I button, keep it down like a dungeon.
you could call me the cough medicine curmudgeon.
frankly, the feeling's fuckin fantastic
I'm tripping like jesus in the desert when he fasted,
Like it's the night before we all get drafted,
Like we're rowing through some rapids with Kevin Bacon, white water rafting
Like you're on epcot center on acid? Exactly.
|fucking up my christmas|
lyrics by c.ward
music by j.fewell
Ladies that are fat ladies that are skinny
Ladies that are all night on my jimmy
Ladies that won't charge me a buck fiddy
Just wanna get with me cuz I'm so pretty
Bitties who wanna bite off a lil sumpn
Best part's the top like a drew barry muffin
Bittie's that wanna turn on their love oven
And cook up a caserole of stove top stuffin
Don't stop the suckin cuz you're filled with my gumption
take care of my beaker cuz I'm honeydew bunsen
Got ya jonesin for my potion, got my finger on the button
That's why mc be struttin
Wish I could erase this erection
Honey's comin at me from every direction
Lookin for the love connection
Stinky, sweaty, sexin without protection
So line up the contestants
I'll open their drawers like the kid in the sixth sense
I won't persist this distance, gotta get up in this
She fuckin up my christmas
Fuckin up my christmas is a new way of saying fuckin up my shit
This is not so much a holliday oriented song
As it is an exclamation of dismay at the sight of a beautiful woman
She fuckin up my christmas biznitch
Catchin glimpses in tiny tid bits
I was fine till you was in my bizness
With you're volleyball booty and you're frilly pink tits
Yo what up wit dis, it mc chris
"M" in my name stand for monolith
No that's not a lisp, you're a finalist
Here's a sash for that ass it says dominance
now, here's my hotel key and some common sense
get up to my suite or you're incompetent
do you wanna be a winner or the opposite?
So lick them lips, drop them shits
And step on it.
|fett's vette |
lyrics by c.ward
music by j.fewell
cruisin mos espa in my delorian
war's over I'm a peacetime madalorian
my story has stumped star wars historians
deep in deabte buffet plate at bennigans
rhyme renegade sure to penetrate
first and second defense I won't hesitate
got a job to do darth's the guy that delegates
got something against skywalker someone he really hates
I don't give a fuck I'm after solo
For all I care he could be hiding at yoda's dojo
Got make the money credit's no good
When the jawas run the shop in your neighborhood
Think you can cook I got a grappling hook
Let's make this quick cuz I'm really booked
I'm a devious degenerate, defender of the devil
Shut down all the trash compactor's on the detention level
My backpack's got jets
I'm boba the fett
I bounty hunt for jaba hut
To finance my vette
I chill in deep space
A mask is over my face
I deliver the prize but I still narrow my eyes
Cuz my time I don't like to waste.
I'm a question wrapped inside an enigma
Get inside the slave one find your homing signal
From endor to hoth, ripley to spock
I'll find what you want, but there's gonna be a cost
Say my name is boba fett I know my shit is tight
Start not acting in right, you're frozen in carbonite
Got telescopic sight, flame throwers on my wrist
You still don't get the jist, spiked boots are made to kick
Targets are made to hit, you think I give a shit
Yer mama is a bitch, I see you in the sarlaac pit
You just flipped my switch integrity been dissed
You scratchin on my itch you know I shoot the gift
Got bambinas at cantinas waitin to lick my lusty lips
So I'll let you get back inside you're little space ship
Give you a head start, cuz I'm the sportin kind
Consider the starting line the sneaky smile I hide inside
Hope you have hyper drive, pray to stay alive
Don't try to slip me a five cuz I never take a bribe
To the beat of a different drummer, bad ass bounty hunter
Let no man put asunder or else they be put under
As in six feet, got an imperial fleet
Backin me up gonna blow up any attempt to defeat
They gotta death star, got four payments on my car
Hand it over to hammer head at mos eisley bar
He used to carjack, now he's a barback
Just goes to show how you can get back on the right track
As for me that's not an option can't say that with more clarity
Me going legit would be jar jar in speech therapy
Slice you open like a tan tan, faster than the autobahn
Or a motorbike in tron, do the deed and then I'm gone
Jaba has a hissyfit, contact calrissian
Over a colt, the paln unfolds, no politic is legit
Back in the day when I was a slave
Living live in the fast lane like in a pod race
My mean streak tweeked I became a basket case
So this space ace split that place poste haste
Took up a noble cause called the clone wars
Cuz life's not all about girls and cars
Getting fucked up in fucked up bars
See I'm not a retard or gay like de barge
I'm large and in charge with a face so scarred
A cold black heart that's been torn apart
The sith wish that they had a dick so hard
Cuz it's long long ago in a pussy far far
Call me master cuz I'm faster than pryor on fire
I no longer have to hot wire
I'm a hunter for hire with no plans to retire
And all the sucka mc's can call me sire
dq blizzard (featuring h.bullit)
lyrics by c.ward
music by j. fewell
yer rapper:he's whack dude, does he even try?
can he do what mine do? think you should say buh-bye.
get up on the mike like a five on a fifty.
quickly avoid the hickeys of the bucktoothed bitties.
fake timberlake just to be by britney.
smoke that pipe with witney, shoot that blow with iggy.
l.i.b, n.y.c and all places in between,
you could call me a mint cuz I make the green.
i make the scene. i make believe that you all was naked,
so i wouldn't have to fake it, just copy and paste it,
like adobe photoshop, red foreman in robocop,
i get up on the mike and you know i won't fuckin stop.
it's like the props of carrot top, or yellow stains in my socks.
you acting like you hip? yer all hepped up on hopps.
so just do the body rock, cuz the beat just be so bumpin,.
let's get our groove on before our carriage is a pumpkin,
before they outlaw fuckin, not bad for a drunken munchkin.
my name is mc chris welcome to my lyric luncheon.
word up, word up, word up, word up and you know.
name's mc, my band's the lee majors
put us on the bill, and boy ya hit paydirt
when i'm on the mike, girlies wanna flizzirt
but i tell'm chill like a dq blizzard
half corn beef and cabbage, half fred savage.
the better than average rapper with the have to have it habit.
heir apperants on my carrot like they was jessica rabbit,
like fake wood paneling on the side of stationwagons.
fraggle rock on the box, fruit loops on my chin,
wonderin if I'm ever really gonna fit in,
or be a son of a bitch with a gut and some tits
or a roaming casanova with my dick in a (censored.)
I'll be back in a bit, I gotta floss my johnson,
make that cream for the state wisconsin.
you say all of my shit is complete nonsense,
fuck my cd and the shitty ass contents.
bullshit, my shit's the bomb.
siamese twins want menage a trois.
robot bitches want their backs massaged.
they may not be real but them tits is large.
(damn) word up, word up, word up, word up and you know.