Funky Shit (Ft. Yelawolf) Lyrics
| Song | Funky Shit (Ft. Yelawolf) |
| Artist | Travis Barker |
| Album | Drumsticks & Tattoos |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| [Intro:] | |
| Sitting in the back (Oh my god) | |
| S-Sitting the back (f-f-f-funky shit) | |
| [Verse 1] | |
| 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? | |
| [Hook:] | |
| 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 | |
| [Verse 2:] | |
| 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 | |
| ? 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 | |
| [Hook] | |
| [Verse 3:] | |
| 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 | |
| [Hook] |
| Intro: | |
| Sitting in the back Oh my god | |
| SSitting the back ffffunky shit | |
| Verse 1 | |
| 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 | |
| SSipping 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? | |
| Hook: | |
| 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 | |
| Verse 2: | |
| 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 | |
| ? 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, tbones, pinto beans | |
| Hook | |
| Verse 3: | |
| 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 | |
| Hook |
| Intro: | |
| Sitting in the back Oh my god | |
| SSitting the back ffffunky shit | |
| Verse 1 | |
| 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 | |
| SSipping 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? | |
| Hook: | |
| 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 | |
| Verse 2: | |
| 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 | |
| ? 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, tbones, pinto beans | |
| Hook | |
| Verse 3: | |
| 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 | |
| Hook |
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