Yesh, yesh, y'all, Gruff stay fresh y'all.
Puffin' bless y'all, in the Lex' to the mall.
So-called bad chick, sexin' you all.
Give Gruff a call, let me flex in them walls.
Twirl ya backbone, get my mack on.
Get your Reebok money, send ya ass home.
Is Gruff a playa? Nigga, ask Pretty Tone.
Flooded rolly lit, smooth goldy shit.
If I ever die, your Joe's gon' have a fit.
Herb be phat, linen down derby hat.
Gators bitin', minks and fur on me back.
Live talk shows, pop corks off a Mo's.
My money grows, while fiends snort up they nose.
Private jet, nigga, whole life is set.
Life like begets, mega ice on the neck.
Yeah, this is how we do, just make ya boo-ga-lu.
Harlem World, baby, and the LB crew.
Now we do, party till the sky turn blue.
Partyin', yeah, that's what we gon' do.
I'm creepin' uptown, and my mans ride wit 'em.
He got three Dutches in the ash tray, and Sal wit' 'em.
He gettin' blunted, so he wanted me to slide me.
Give me two tic, so we can get wild wit' him.
We on FDR Drive, doing ninety-five.
Smokin' trees, on the ways, Saturday Night Live.
Word is butters, plus they muthafuckin' pad is hot.
Smoke the weed, drink the liquor, so I said why not.
Peepin', ring the bell, as soon as we hit the spot.
Shorty open the door wit' the short and the knot,
Wit' the belly button showin', the L that slip.
Yo, I smell that shit, yo, I can tell that shit.
Soon as my man creep wit' shorty inside the room
I con', I continue to spark up my moon, 'cause...
Aiyo, Gruff holdin', keep the bar rollin'.
Check me in VIP, gettin' love open.
The fellow wit' cream, gon' sell her a dream.
Gas luck, needs to get the hell in between.
Know what I mean? Kick game, puff la green.
Everywhere Gruff go, shine like high beam.
Word up, ya know the ice burnt up.
Give me one minute, have your wife skirt up.
And all playa haters get they life hold up.
Undertaker might have to dig some dirt up.
Chocolate mack nigga, push an ack vigga.
Call it Don P., then go relax wit' her.
[Chorus x 2]
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by Country Joe & The Fish