Big Daddy Brown

Written by: Michael Turner & Christopher Portugal

[Thes One:] An' I ever tell you about that time Ron Isley beat me up in front of a Fatburger 'cause I stole his pickles? And I don't even like pickles. Ain't it a bitch. ([Double K:] dayday… dayday…)

[Thes One:]
The analog airwave traffic controller
To send a sound wave of vocal through a solar flare
And time tear hold up, direct to headphones on a bus
Turn up the treble 'cause in break-beats we trust
We took one part rust off a city park bench
A couple concrete streets, a half a chain-link fence
Put it together, and mixed it with a whole lotta heart
Their laid-in dense with talent in this hip-hop art
We part the seas of ghetto disease with lyrical trees
And keep the little kids, yo, they all blessed like sneeze
"Oh, fo' sheeze, the P's got legs" like liquor stores got locs
And always keeping my deck like Double K and his folks
I got a black Jeep bumping through your urban locale
"Your whole style is a wash!" Yo, you should throw in the towel
And while you're at it, add more fabric, make that shit a full load
We always keep it fully loaded in this area code
323, specifically, the city's the Heights
And where the dogs run in packs, and fight with raps at midnight
And if you happen to see a light in the attic, yo, chill!
We making beats outta static-filled records that's ill

[James-Brown-style scream samples]

[Double K:]
Hey, holla at your family, tell 'em I'm coming to dinner
Superbad, when I enter, watch my big ass move
Not a beginner, so I'm fin to blow your head for a sec
The forty-chilling, top villain, gaining 'nuff respect
Serving Soul Power to people who lack when they rap
Either that or gunpowder laced up in your fat blunt
Do The Grunt with the cunt you just met, or bet three
On the death of perpetrators passing the P
Like they got it, yo, it rotted away, don't try to bring it up
You're fucked like the disabled, stay home and watch cable
Yo, you might see and my buddies getting loaded
Welcome to your little, wack-ass show, hey, we stoled it
And taking it back to the other side of the tracks
Where the kings be at, with big stacks of hot wax
Pay tax to this when they play it for you
Or we coming, funky drumming, Part 2 with the crew
Putting hell on your front porch, monkey rhyme singer
Go on a playground where little kids are found and fit in
'Cause this ain't for you, no one adores you, we all ignore you
I'm Little Boy Black with the payback rap, cold-blooded, star-studied it
Then crash, a type of sucka MCs killing, you know I'm pilling caps
When I grab the people's seven inch for your ducks
Get out the way when we bust or call the coroner truck
And when they ask, say, "dark jeans, white t-shirt, and black hat"
I'm done with the pen stug doogie, it'll be that…

([Double K:] Fight nobody, oh… oh no… to be black, I'mma get it myself, but I'm gonna roll it myself… time out, what?… do it! What you say? What you say?… nobody…
[Thes One:] Don't moan so much, brother, don't moan so much!
[Double K:] I didn't know you was over there singing, man! Oh, man! What you say? What you say? Get funky! What you say?)

*Important Note: These transcriptions are not verified with P.U.T.S., so there may be errors. We are especially unsure of the greyed-out text. We encourage you to offer your suggestions for lyrics corrections on the site's main page.


This track appears on the following releases:

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The Next Step Question in the Form of an Answer American Men, Vol. 1
"O.S.T." ...Or Stay Tuned Stepfather
The Om Years Fun DMC Carried Away
Highlighter 12 Step Program American Men, Vol. 2
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