2 Minutes & 21 Seconds Of Funk Lyrics - My Soul - Coolio

Yeah, fuck all these niggaz 

You know what I'm talkin' about Wino, 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' corners 

Buckin' shots on your block, I'm sippin' on Corona's 

Uh, your McDonald had a farm with a six-fo on suicide 

Sittin' in the barn with 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 delapatate your waist 

Coolio's on the case, get yo hoe out my face, fool 

Lodi Dodi, I don't know karate, but I know a 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 dopiest niggaz out I guess that's why they hate me 

'Cause I slang hits like niggaz 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 more better 

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 old age of forty-eight or forty-niner 

My shit is wise, CPT MC 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're more 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 Old Gold now I just stroll 

Straight to the exit section of my neighborhood liquor store 

Huh, and you know what make me laugh, bitch? 

Even your mama want my autograph