| Song | Bumpy Bring It Home |
| Artist | Freddie Foxxx |
| Album | Industry Shakedown |
| 作曲 : Foxxx | |
| (feat. M.O.P.) | |
| Ayo, turn the, turn the music up some more | |
| In the headphones for me | |
| Check it out [c'mon!] | |
| You ready, it's Bumpy Knuckles baby | |
| Sendin this out to my niggas | |
| All them hardcore street corner, wilders | |
| Ha, ha, Freddie Foxxx baby | |
| That's right, Diamond D baby | |
| [Verse 1] | |
| Whoever thought that I'd be Mr. lyrical flows nice | |
| Like sunsets on the Rio Grande | |
| Grantin after sisters checkin out they can can | |
| My lyrical ability keeps them real niggas | |
| That listen to hip hop feelin me | |
| I keep it underground, sound's a buck China | |
| Even in Japan they know, I'm the ultimate | |
| Spit at me verse, like it's my last one | |
| Slow ones, fast ones, I blast past the fake ass ones | |
| You see, I don't think no nigga's nicer than me | |
| I'm not conceited, that's how I read it, these niggas heated | |
| I dissect your verses like science class frogs | |
| I see your rap records is swine, like hogs | |
| Now cipher, that's like turnin down Janet for Michelle Pfeiffer | |
| See Freddie Foxxx aint wit that | |
| My shit is hotter than cayenne pepper, the mic wrecker | |
| The lethal weapon, I keep you high steppin | |
| It's not my fault that niggas listen to me | |
| And wanna rob shit, cuz I do my motherfuckin job kid | |
| If you a thug then you recognize what you see before you | |
| Eyes and ears said Freddie Foxxx is here | |
| I been waitin it, doin it, sayin it | |
| Rollin by my motherfuckin self with my burner cocked slayin it | |
| And I aint seen nothing that could make me believe | |
| There's a nigga rappin liver than me, you feel me | |
| [HOOK 2X: Billy Danze] | |
| You in a class of your own, Bumpy's in the zone | |
| Leave Bumpy alone! Bumpy get it on | |
| Bumpy spit chrome, Bumpy hold a throne | |
| Now, Bumpy bring it home! | |
| [Verse 2] | |
| I wear Rolex watches and alligator shoes | |
| Where niggas thought devil jeans was the big news | |
| I had fifty miles on my brand new Benz in '89 | |
| When you wanted me to critique your rhyme | |
| It just was all right | |
| Niggas brought rappers to me, for approval | |
| Now I give you sixteen bars, for removal | |
| I punch you in your temple make you stagger like Yeltsin | |
| Over hand right to the brain is what you felt son | |
| Then I take off my belt son | |
| Show you what a whippin is, what a true real mic rippin is | |
| You fake niggas can't make it hard for real niggas cuz | |
| There's no defense for the truth so what the deal nigga | |
| No matter who tell it, real niggas always prevail | |
| Just like a fake nigga always fail | |
| Niggas livin in a fairy tale, until they get beef | |
| Then he want peace, bitch, you just a rap pussy | |
| You comin just a lyrical lunatic | |
| I make it blacker than midnight at 12 O'Clock noon and shit | |
| I keep rollin like the black Navi with them Micky Thompsons | |
| Halogen lights, I keep my flow tight | |
| The new Bumpy shit is like the new Jordans when they come out | |
| Got emcees rappin wit they gun out | |
| Memorize lyrics and I spit 'em to the needy | |
| Send love to my nigga Tweety, and can you feel me | |
| [HOOK] | |
| [Verse 3] | |
| I treat 'em like what stick up kids is to dark alleys | |
| What's Slick Rick is to Bally's | |
| What played out NY niggas is to Cali | |
| Runnin from the ill shit | |
| I do what record labels don't like, the real shit | |
| Money is energy, I'm hyped up | |
| Step on stage with that bullshit, get hair wiped up | |
| I be up in your crib, with my two black sigs in your ribs | |
| Takin everything you got to give | |
| The black Robin Hood I rock for niggas that can't afford Rolies | |
| Ride around and in tagged up stolies | |
| I keep the truth like the Holy Qu'ran | |
| Here's a game plan, ambush, best attack, hit off my man | |
| I make you niggas listen to some lyrical shit | |
| Some miracle shit, some empirical shit | |
| Now I'm in flipmode, I got my gun in your brain | |
| And make you run you ch ch ch cha ch ch ch cha chain | |
| Bumpy plays no games, it's all real here | |
| Can't get my gun in the club, I keep it real near | |
| I'm harder than a bulletproof vest wrapped around a steel pole | |
| Six shots all through your body like real soul | |
| James Brown or the Meters | |
| I'm gunnin for you no talent rap style eaters | |
| When Diamond D blessed me I had to come rugged | |
| Or unplug it, only true thugs can fuck shit | |
| [HOOK] |
| zuò qǔ : Foxxx | |
| feat. M. O. P. | |
| Ayo, turn the, turn the music up some more | |
| In the headphones for me | |
| Check it out c' mon! | |
| You ready, it' s Bumpy Knuckles baby | |
| Sendin this out to my niggas | |
| All them hardcore street corner, wilders | |
| Ha, ha, Freddie Foxxx baby | |
| That' s right, Diamond D baby | |
| Verse 1 | |
| Whoever thought that I' d be Mr. lyrical flows nice | |
| Like sunsets on the Rio Grande | |
| Grantin after sisters checkin out they can can | |
| My lyrical ability keeps them real niggas | |
| That listen to hip hop feelin me | |
| I keep it underground, sound' s a buck China | |
| Even in Japan they know, I' m the ultimate | |
| Spit at me verse, like it' s my last one | |
| Slow ones, fast ones, I blast past the fake ass ones | |
| You see, I don' t think no nigga' s nicer than me | |
| I' m not conceited, that' s how I read it, these niggas heated | |
| I dissect your verses like science class frogs | |
| I see your rap records is swine, like hogs | |
| Now cipher, that' s like turnin down Janet for Michelle Pfeiffer | |
| See Freddie Foxxx aint wit that | |
| My shit is hotter than cayenne pepper, the mic wrecker | |
| The lethal weapon, I keep you high steppin | |
| It' s not my fault that niggas listen to me | |
| And wanna rob shit, cuz I do my motherfuckin job kid | |
| If you a thug then you recognize what you see before you | |
| Eyes and ears said Freddie Foxxx is here | |
| I been waitin it, doin it, sayin it | |
| Rollin by my motherfuckin self with my burner cocked slayin it | |
| And I aint seen nothing that could make me believe | |
| There' s a nigga rappin liver than me, you feel me | |
| HOOK 2X: Billy Danze | |
| You in a class of your own, Bumpy' s in the zone | |
| Leave Bumpy alone! Bumpy get it on | |
| Bumpy spit chrome, Bumpy hold a throne | |
| Now, Bumpy bring it home! | |
| Verse 2 | |
| I wear Rolex watches and alligator shoes | |
| Where niggas thought devil jeans was the big news | |
| I had fifty miles on my brand new Benz in ' 89 | |
| When you wanted me to critique your rhyme | |
| It just was all right | |
| Niggas brought rappers to me, for approval | |
| Now I give you sixteen bars, for removal | |
| I punch you in your temple make you stagger like Yeltsin | |
| Over hand right to the brain is what you felt son | |
| Then I take off my belt son | |
| Show you what a whippin is, what a true real mic rippin is | |
| You fake niggas can' t make it hard for real niggas cuz | |
| There' s no defense for the truth so what the deal nigga | |
| No matter who tell it, real niggas always prevail | |
| Just like a fake nigga always fail | |
| Niggas livin in a fairy tale, until they get beef | |
| Then he want peace, bitch, you just a rap pussy | |
| You comin just a lyrical lunatic | |
| I make it blacker than midnight at 12 O' Clock noon and shit | |
| I keep rollin like the black Navi with them Micky Thompsons | |
| Halogen lights, I keep my flow tight | |
| The new Bumpy shit is like the new Jordans when they come out | |
| Got emcees rappin wit they gun out | |
| Memorize lyrics and I spit ' em to the needy | |
| Send love to my nigga Tweety, and can you feel me | |
| HOOK | |
| Verse 3 | |
| I treat ' em like what stick up kids is to dark alleys | |
| What' s Slick Rick is to Bally' s | |
| What played out NY niggas is to Cali | |
| Runnin from the ill shit | |
| I do what record labels don' t like, the real shit | |
| Money is energy, I' m hyped up | |
| Step on stage with that bullshit, get hair wiped up | |
| I be up in your crib, with my two black sigs in your ribs | |
| Takin everything you got to give | |
| The black Robin Hood I rock for niggas that can' t afford Rolies | |
| Ride around and in tagged up stolies | |
| I keep the truth like the Holy Qu' ran | |
| Here' s a game plan, ambush, best attack, hit off my man | |
| I make you niggas listen to some lyrical shit | |
| Some miracle shit, some empirical shit | |
| Now I' m in flipmode, I got my gun in your brain | |
| And make you run you ch ch ch cha ch ch ch cha chain | |
| Bumpy plays no games, it' s all real here | |
| Can' t get my gun in the club, I keep it real near | |
| I' m harder than a bulletproof vest wrapped around a steel pole | |
| Six shots all through your body like real soul | |
| James Brown or the Meters | |
| I' m gunnin for you no talent rap style eaters | |
| When Diamond D blessed me I had to come rugged | |
| Or unplug it, only true thugs can fuck shit | |
| HOOK |