Common Food for Funk Lyrics

One Day It’ll All Make Sense Track Listing
CD 1
  • 1 Introspective
  • 2 Invocation
  • 3 Real Nigga Quotes
  • 4 Retrospect for Life
  • 5 Gettin’ Down at the Amphitheater
  • 6 Food for Funk
  • 7 G.O.D. (Gaining One’s Definition)
  • 8 My City
  • 9 Hungry
  • 10 All Night Long
  • 11 Stolen Moments, Part I
  • 12 Stolen Moments, Part II
  • 13 1’2 Many…
  • 14 Stolen Moments, Part III (intro/outro)
  • 15 Making a Name for Ourselves
  • 16 Reminding Me (of Sef)
  • 17 Pop’s Rap, Part II / Fatherhood
  • [Common]
    What yo
    Yo [Repeats]
    Check it yo
    You say a one for the trouble two for the time
    Come on y'all let's rock that uh
    (I can feel the funk)[Repeat: x4]
    Check it

    I come to grips with mics
    I come to grips that a lot of mic users is dikes
    I come to grips with the likes of Fred Hampton
    Cold so I'm lamping with no need for spotlight
    When I got light like an intersection, you talk
    But you came to my town with protection
    Election year, had the block hot
    I scream "**** the world" for having a baby girl sorta **** block
    I write rhymes like I come from the windy city
    With my crew, I click like simply, stand midi with reality
    Casually, I walk through these war games
    Some claim say but then they take on whore names
    If that's the way your sex drives, stay in your lane
    If you're a man, I can't tell like if the door rang now

    Now, to the ladies in the house when you come in the place
    It ain't a bunch of *****s all up in your face
    The music is thumping and you're feeling the bass
    What you want to do girl(wanna shout)
    To the brothers when you come in a jam, it ain't a bunch of *****s
    It ain't high tech and ain't got free liquor
    You jacking his name and stick to make you Jones get thicker
    What you want to do man?(let go)
    Yo, check it

    Some *****s be on the mic, sounding like dikes
    Allow me to get on and bust like Spike(uh)
    Lee, I'm in the majors with no rotation
    Through stations of bullshit, I see through like a pager
    In the age of Aquarius, various things
    Is gonna carry us in intellect and what have you
    Street astrologists interpret point stars and half moons
    Then end up on garages or walls in bathrooms
    Every black moon, a rap tune move me
    The rap sun, I rain more than Rudy, that unruly **** is played
    It don't stop
    It's time to get it, get it made
    I got my mind made up like Foxy Brown's face
    I know how the underground tastes
    I want a crib from the ground up, rooms spin at a round pace
    Get down based on true story, through Corey, came close to the teachers
    Colder as the Iceman, posted before it start wrinkling
    Linking with cats, who don't react to change in the years
    Fulfill prophesies in rooms full of emptiness, now


    I can feel the funk(x8)
    Yo, check it, check it

    I came through the corridor, with the aura
    Raw Chicago mora, scope the horror
    Read between the lines and know the border
    Some pop wines for juice, I wait in the water
    Waiting for you Big Willie *****s to have a show at The Crib
    We goin' get with your glamor, long as we know where it is
    Tell you ain't a player by your sweater doused with wack feather
    The Crib got the gangsta player **** patent like black leather
    I rap better than you, you, or maybe him
    But I am like a tree and every lyric is a timb
    Spilled brews and greasy foods got my car smelly
    Some be so high, they believe they fly like R. Kelly
    But then they fall off, dusted *****s is getting sawed off
    They fall soft, my mental lift is for me to haul off
    I kick ***


    I can feel the funk (x16)
    (makes me want to shout, want to shout)(x4)

    Wanna shout

    Written by: Ernest Dion Wilson, Lonnie Rashid Lynn
    Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC

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