Come on, yeah
Yo, I'm from L A, cella; vison at ya, tuning to my
Figured ya, figured ya; microphone, the mobile
Holdin' mic just so while I be just day-dreamin'
Drop like nine months and rock backyard to fronts
Who wants to live the gutter life?
We got sidewalks to walk, baby
I need a chick with big potatoes to mash, baby
Hang like parachutes, I've been floatin' for years
We went from rappin' in cars ta rappin' careers
One dear, two dear, I got the gift like Santa
Go from N.Y. to D.C. and down to Atlanta
Make ya fly like propellers, we beat it down in the cella
Well, I guess you call it "basement"
'Cause that's where all the ba** went
When we turn it up a notch; old school like Ed Koch
Toss my foot up in the air (hoo), grab my crotch
Who am I? Michael; keep the music on a cycle
So we can finish and flow within your 'fro
Word out, word out
This is called, uh, frozen style
Chatter your teeth style
Freeze like the artic style, y'all
Come on
Check it out
I'm the P to the O to the S
Known to pinpoint a flow to the chest
So wear your vest; nibble the thighs and breasts on Vanessa
Had to sneak it 'cause her mom's kept me under pressure (word)
Now as the sun appears to rise and set
Some cats live for the 'hood 'cause it's as good as it gets
But my plot is much thicker (yep)
I move it much quicker (word)
Three-hundred and sixty miles to the P H
So I'm balanced; not a fella to fall
Connecting the dots; I got two propellers in all
Went from ghetto - to the mettle
Seen all degrees of hot and froze when I was not
Like Lot, my lady threw salt in the game
Invest the cheese in the mouse who said: "Walk into fame"
Now you hear my name being screamed on the ride of life
It's too late to get off, to get off
We in the house y'all; we in the house y'all
We about to get evicted; there ain't no lights or liquid
The bills ain't paid and last week we had a raid
'Cause we partied too much, but that's my family's trade
Invited all of my folks and, yo, all my folks stayed
They tried to silence my sh** but we just pushed up the fade
Sat back and charged a dolla' a head and got paid
And called on the band and got stupid when the keyboard played
(It's party time, word out. Word out, yeah. We got party goin' on here, y'all. Pa** me that drink over here.)
Keeping funky with the Propellerheads, y'all
Now listen
You see, I'm here to usher the pain with no relief
But still get the "Great Scotts, are you a thief?
Seems like you got a mouth full of gold..." records
Sorry for that, platinum plaque soon to come
'Til then Propeller got me working the drum
For a fee so notify the 5-0 looking for the fumble (oh)
I hear you want to rumble on the mic so check it out
How you want it, I got it
Oh yeah