(NFA) No Frontin Allowed

Mad madness
Trashy
Brother from way back
We're blowin mics since the days of 8-track
Certified
Bonified
Pull out the weapon
Rusted
Your ho's gets busted
Run your jewels!
Shootin up ya damn fools
Leavin' your loser lazy lyricist
In bloody pools
Went away
Came back
Your still wack
Now your slobbin Marly's mob
For a dope track
Comin off like a bra
And its the witness
No click-click
A fru (?) business
Don't care about no money
Got props in it
Flippin scripts
With every letter in the alphabet
Wanna jump. JUMP!
And jingle your rump. RUMP!
Here to pump punks
With real hot lead chunks
Full-grown
I ain't no baby with these rhymes kid
Put the mic down
My peoples know where ya live
I chop you little brittle riddle
Right up the middle
And have the police playin the fiddle
In the hospital
Somebody said, "He couldn't rip with the roughness."
Rhymes kick your teeth
But end up frontless
Soul survivor of a thousand beats
Sendin funeral wreathes
To all ya use-to-be chiefs
Is a raw
To a bearlin in the woods (?)
Brothers tapes ain't jack
Their best tracks is wack
I heard you think you got a chance to win
But my Glock is stopped off
To murder the top ten
Rough and rugged and raw
I'm like a callous
The underground can say
"ain't no Fra-zontin in my palace."

Well can I be the flavor of the month?
I got the flavor
Plus I can bump a chump
I got the funk
Straight from my underground hide-out
I freak it in the house
And let the hits just
Ooz out
Bust on the scene
To let ya know I wasn't frontin
Got ya screamin for my album
So I had to do somethin
Write tonight
To take a bit
Not a bite
And watch the do-it-all
Freak you with
All my might
Like "Here I am to save the day!"
I stop the tracks
With the mic
So I say "To chay"
And "On Gaurd"
When I'm swingin for your brow
Cause in the house of hits
Ain't no frontin allowed

Just when you thought
That it was safe
To try and chop me
Run for ya life
Now here somes Mr. Funky
And I'm pissed
So watch how many heads
I'll be the takeout
Boy ya better look out
I work ya like a cook-out
So get the flavor
The original Mr. Funky
(?)
And you watch me do my thing
Because I hit ya with the funk
Of the fly-talker
And make your girl
"Bump-bump! Get it, Get it!"
Like Luke Skywalker
I can't front
I love rappin with a passion
Crash your head front
Into the funk
You think I'm slam dancin
See when you front
You make mad
The alter weight (?)
Freak this:
"funky twin powers activate!"
Sheik on the mic
With the cape and muscles
Crushin MC's
While their girls do the hustle
See other rappers
Try to dis the lords
But yo, your dead wrong
Damnit, can't we all just get along?
We'll see
There simply ain't no frontin allowed
Yo, I'm out
Like the Cosby show
Peace to the Funky Child

Punchin your god-damn eyebrows off
Roughin it up north
Lookin' like your laugh off (?)
It's a blash smash
And crash from my stash
Be watchin your back kid
Your girl and the phat path
Talkin bout your macks and tax
What's with that?
Your gettin wet like
Sloooow sex
Rippin on that old school kid
Leavin sliced as a slit
Says I wet your crib
No question
Testin the west
And the east and
Once the ammo was released and
I'll make your girl come and getcha
Hope you get the picture
Boy your better off
If a pit bit ya!
What's its like
In the illest fight
Believe the hype
I'm givin crowds more nose jobs than Mike
Fight sight alright
They bite
Spot light tonight
Is hype
Trigger happy tripe
Don't hit bite
My owner's right
And ya know it's comin off
So don't ask it
Snatchin the vocal
And hotties on the rap tip
Mackin ya boys up
Bringin the noise up
And now ya need stitches
Because my voice cuts
Chainsaw
Gain more
And riegn raw
And never let a brother play it
Is my main law