Текст песни 2 Minutes & 21 Seconds of Funk - Coolio

Yeah, yeah
You know what I'm talkin' about Wino
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Two minutes and twenty-one seconds of funk
And I ain't no punk
That's right, that's right

A tisket a tasket
That's all you ask it
Snap your CD and drop the pieces in your casket
Like little Jack Horna', I'm still bendin' cornas'
Buckin' shots on your block and sippin' on Corona's
Uh, your McDonald had a farm wit' a six-fo on suicide
Sittin' in the barn wit' no alarm
Straight up collected it, cool and calm

Crowbar in my hand and my skeleton brick still works like a charm
Who's the rawest?
My shit is flawless
Had to be passin' out bruises
Lacerations and broken jawses
Emcees wanna floss you better understand who's the boss
Before I do a Michael Jackson and "Cut your shit off!"

Part of the penitentiary still, penetratin' your grill
I keep on keepin' it right, while you keep on keepin' it real
I'll bring the treble and the bass to dilapidate your waist
Coolio's on the case, get yo ho out my face, fool

La-di da-di, I don't know karate, but I know ka-razor
And none of y'all can't fade me
I know you wanna try to play me
And busta's wanna playa hate me
I'm one of the dopest niggas out I
Guess that's why they hate me

'Cause I slang hits like niggas slang cavi
I remain like khakis, I guess that's why they mad at me
On a record you might outgat me
But you can't outrap me
My shit is fatta'
And yo shit need a little bit mo batta'
Freestyle in unrestricted manner or method
Free funk text readily selected, so check it

Uh, dip diver, socializer, I've been rockin'
These motherfuckin' microphones since nineteen seventy-niner
And by the time that this little nappy head nigga retire
I'ma be at the ripe ol' age of forty-eight or forty-niner
My shit is wise, CPT M.C. for hire
My name ain't Rick James but I'll burn your ass with a fire

So, what's your desire baby love?
Is it hands wrapped around mics
Or fingers wrapped around triggas?
Eitha' way it go I'm dumpin' and I'm dippin'
Still tennis shoe pimpin', 40 Thevz in position
Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, now nigga I'm a giant
And yo ass is like Jack
But yo magic beans is wack

Skills is what you lack
I'm like a Benz, you ain't even like Cadillac
You mo like a Regal
I'ma pit bull, and you's a Beagle
I'm set to strangle hangin' emcee's at all angles
As their legs start to dangle

Dance around everybody like Mr. Bo Jangles
Los Angeles, Compton, Long Beach, and Carson Hawthorne
Livin' with the Watts
I'm sendin' out shout outs
I used to drink Ol' Gold
Now I just stroll

Straight to the X.O. section of my neighborhood liquor store
Huh, and you know what make me laugh, bitch?
Even your mama want my autograph, autograph, autograph
Autograph, autograph