Yo, man, tell me what possessed you to try and heckle, when you know I flip styles, like Alfalfa has freckles,
Rhymes, like L.A. be having crime, and a gang of rhythm tracks, like Alanya does blacks,
Facts, I'm dropping those like a bag full of bricks,
Coming with no gimmicks or tricks, just me upon this mic, with the deejay on the mix,
It's like pepper on grits,
My snare and kicks, I like 'em heavy like a Chevy,
Use this M.P.C. like a machete,
Grab a jazz groove, and start to chop, chop,
Group it and then dump some stuff on the top,
Now, watch out because it's falling, falling right into your world,
My lyrics make your spirit holler,
Beats got the crowd jumping up and down like a juiced Impala in a car contest,
Repeat what I manifest: J. E. S. U. S. C. H. R. I. S. T, which is abbreviated C.,
Which came before the mode, which came before the funk,
Which is the name of this jam,
Vibrating, shaking, rattling in your trunk,
C-Mode Funk.
Yo, excuse me, I heard you like the hyped junk, so here it is bro, right inside the ear hole,
Like the Q-Tip my sound-wave be traveling towards your brain,
And, once it registers, it results with you moving body parts to the hit,
No way I can quit coming out with that uncut funk for your stereo,
Control the flow like Herbie Hancock in Piano,
'Cause I'm opposite of a loser; straight winner,
Never came soprano, 'cause it rocks tenor when I be on this microphone,
But at the pad I'm the baritone that I got, expressing my beliefs over beats,
Folks want beef, they better stroll to Burger King, or step back and start crumbling,
Yo, prostitute shows and you're meal ticket flows,
But can that C-Mode stuff really rock the party?
Man, you better just check it, or go ask somebody.
Oh no, oh no, really could it be, not superman, but that brother, Super-C?
Flooding this whole industry with the most misunderstood way of living in history,
Niggas be yelling out, "Mystery, mystery" when I be coming on stage with my KJV,
They lookin' closely, then they see that I'm not that ordinary, everyday, rhyming hallelujah in the pew, but I bring reality to you,
With the flow that'll bust you in your chest like a rented bow blow,
When I manifest that my reckless,
Junk were happing, I be rapping,
Got atheists and Jehovah's Witnesses clapping to my holy hip-hop, one hundred percent,
Take it home and you happy about every cent you spent, 'cause from A to B I stay strong in your trunk.
