Funky Shit

Sitting in the back (Oh my god)

S-Sitting the back (f-f-f-funky shit)

Peanut butter jelly box, sitting in the carport

808 crack, and I'm open like a barndoor

Beer bottle cap, put 'em in the floor

Set 'em in the floor, what a metaphor is this?

Kind of like I do a beat with Travis

Eat it up, beat it up, work at the atlas

Where should I go? Put 'em in a cereal bowl

In Alabama, then I holler out "Cheerio"

Look at that shit, pull the gun back like elastic

And let it go like a mac clip

S-Sipping on the green bottle, like I'm saint Patrick

Got beans in the mattress, magic

Make you want to jump on a fat bitch

Ooo got to have it

(boss) Yelawolf, pick a thing

On a pekingese bitch, go go gadget

(Owh) I'm all the way from the gutter

Flick a cigarette butt from a Chevrolet pickup

Geeked up on 7 Up

Gotta turn the beat up while I run up on it like a cheetah

Wanna ride a beat, right above, that’ll be the day

Put you up shit creek, paddle it away

Hat to the side

Holler at you homie

What's the matter with you babe?

Sitting in the back with the bass on boom

Trunk gon' shake, and the wheels on zoom

American classic, trashy tunes

L.A. to Alabama, from noon to noon

They saying, (oh my god, that's some funky shit)

(Oh my god, that's some funky shit)

(Oh my god, that's some funky shit)

Oh my god, that's some funky shit

And I'm a Beastie Boy

Airwalks and a bowl cut

Skater when a skater wasn't cool

When it was just, "so what? Fuck you dude"

Well fuck you too

Get your melon cracked with a backpack

I'll bust your fruit

I'm all about constructing my paper

Kind of like a pocket full of Elmer's Glue

Squeeze the bottle, turn the milk

Churn the butter, get the cheese tomorrow

I got a lock on my profit

No exits, no keys tomorrow

But I got steeze to borrow

Some Famous kicks to match

If I got a bass line, I'll rap

As long as TB got sticks to crack

So hit a drumroll, I'll jump in like a jump rope

Watch

Acapella like an elevator, operate the fader while I operate a label then I’m in my fuckin' high tops

Rhythm like a clock, hop scotch

You would've thought, it was written

But it's not

Rag hanging out the back of them jeans

Not a gangbanger but a cracker who sings

And momma don't you worry about a single thing

Really though, cause daddy brought charcoal, and gasoline

And we cooking up tonight, t-bones, pinto beans

Yeah, why stop now?

Put 'em in the trunk

Let 'em feel the sound

That they don't pop it

Let 'em feel the rhyme till he finds the locket

808 weighs a ton, so drop it

Watch your feet, while I rock the beat

Going all out, no privacy

I don't walk if I can ride the beat

But wouldn't you though? Don't lie to me

Of course you would, catapult syllables

Got up on my horse in the woods, whoa

Magical, sorcerer goods

Steal from the rich put more in the hood

Natural, born with a wood

Fuck 'em all, I'm right above 'em all

But you could butt talk, if a ? fall

Outrun with a motherfucker with a sluggish crawl

Chug till I can't chug at all

Not a frat boy, I'm a rap boy

In Hollywood, like Aykroyd

But I read my script with a southern drawl

I run home when mother calls

Cause mother's got a switch

Yeah, she's a wolf too

That makes me a son of a bitch