True MC's Lyrics
| Song | True MC's |
| Artist | Panjabi MC |
| Album | The Album |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Panjabi MC | |
| Yeah | |
| Sumpin' wild | |
| Here come da sun, da crazy buddha smoker | |
| Hoods roll down'n'turnin' out the folk-a | |
| Got mixed vibes but the rhymes they be ringin' | |
| I'm pumpin' out the sh... with the nozzle swingin' | |
| Flavours they be rich like desi and water | |
| So bust out the glitch & roll the next doodah | |
| Right, drug got 'eavy | |
| Back it up the road like a Chevy | |
| 7, 8, rim bring the grins from the singer, | |
| Bouncin' all around with the crazy bass bin | |
| I likes to check dem, rollin' around | |
| Shakin' up the ground and cussin' em down | |
| Like dat's da way it's cool with the fake DJs | |
| Sellin out the dance for the radio plays | |
| I's from the street | |
| I eat soiled meat | |
| I slap those dogs in the high concrete | |
| And I got souls for the stinkin' | |
| But the hip-hop word like, whatevah | |
| Roll a bag o' herbs in the king-size reefer | |
| And toke upon da sh... like Omar Sharif-a | |
| True MC's are born to fight | |
| Instead-a sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| True MC's are born to fight | |
| Instead-a sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Boo-uh! | |
| (Wailing/unintelligible) | |
| Times they be fresh like Kool & The Gang, | |
| Back in the days when they used to get down | |
| And nowadays they got men | |
| Knockin' at my door, and cuffin' up my hand | |
| Well they be suckahs and I be brown | |
| Like James, trippin' on a funky sound | |
| I gots the fat, dirty stinkin' fungus | |
| Rollin' down my throat and growin' in my lungus | |
| 47 rings from the bins when I swing | |
| I thinks of the past when I smoke my tins | |
| Nowadays I gets paid for the rhymes when I'm bouncin' | |
| At times be trippin' like Richard Branson | |
| So get off my sound, see | |
| You know it ain't yours | |
| It belongs to the P | |
| And the super-high court | |
| Crips they be smilin coz they know they black'n | |
| I rocks the party like (scratching) | |
| When I walk the street I don't fear no man | |
| Coz I wear the steel bandit on my hand | |
| It means "Original G", the Biz Markie, | |
| Sugar-free, Pepsi, max out my Sig, | |
| True MC's are born to fight | |
| Instead-a sellin' out the dance for the limelight | |
| True MC's are born to fight | |
| Instead-a sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Instead-a sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Instead-a sellin' out to dance for the limelight |
| zuo qu : Panjabi MC | |
| Yeah | |
| Sumpin' wild | |
| Here come da sun, da crazy buddha smoker | |
| Hoods roll down' n' turnin' out the folka | |
| Got mixed vibes but the rhymes they be ringin' | |
| I' m pumpin' out the sh... with the nozzle swingin' | |
| Flavours they be rich like desi and water | |
| So bust out the glitch roll the next doodah | |
| Right, drug got ' eavy | |
| Back it up the road like a Chevy | |
| 7, 8, rim bring the grins from the singer, | |
| Bouncin' all around with the crazy bass bin | |
| I likes to check dem, rollin' around | |
| Shakin' up the ground and cussin' em down | |
| Like dat' s da way it' s cool with the fake DJs | |
| Sellin out the dance for the radio plays | |
| I' s from the street | |
| I eat soiled meat | |
| I slap those dogs in the high concrete | |
| And I got souls for the stinkin' | |
| But the hiphop word like, whatevah | |
| Roll a bag o' herbs in the kingsize reefer | |
| And toke upon da sh... like Omar Sharifa | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Boouh! | |
| Wailing unintelligible | |
| Times they be fresh like Kool The Gang, | |
| Back in the days when they used to get down | |
| And nowadays they got men | |
| Knockin' at my door, and cuffin' up my hand | |
| Well they be suckahs and I be brown | |
| Like James, trippin' on a funky sound | |
| I gots the fat, dirty stinkin' fungus | |
| Rollin' down my throat and growin' in my lungus | |
| 47 rings from the bins when I swing | |
| I thinks of the past when I smoke my tins | |
| Nowadays I gets paid for the rhymes when I' m bouncin' | |
| At times be trippin' like Richard Branson | |
| So get off my sound, see | |
| You know it ain' t yours | |
| It belongs to the P | |
| And the superhigh court | |
| Crips they be smilin coz they know they black' n | |
| I rocks the party like scratching | |
| When I walk the street I don' t fear no man | |
| Coz I wear the steel bandit on my hand | |
| It means " Original G", the Biz Markie, | |
| Sugarfree, Pepsi, max out my Sig, | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out the dance for the limelight | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight |
| zuò qǔ : Panjabi MC | |
| Yeah | |
| Sumpin' wild | |
| Here come da sun, da crazy buddha smoker | |
| Hoods roll down' n' turnin' out the folka | |
| Got mixed vibes but the rhymes they be ringin' | |
| I' m pumpin' out the sh... with the nozzle swingin' | |
| Flavours they be rich like desi and water | |
| So bust out the glitch roll the next doodah | |
| Right, drug got ' eavy | |
| Back it up the road like a Chevy | |
| 7, 8, rim bring the grins from the singer, | |
| Bouncin' all around with the crazy bass bin | |
| I likes to check dem, rollin' around | |
| Shakin' up the ground and cussin' em down | |
| Like dat' s da way it' s cool with the fake DJs | |
| Sellin out the dance for the radio plays | |
| I' s from the street | |
| I eat soiled meat | |
| I slap those dogs in the high concrete | |
| And I got souls for the stinkin' | |
| But the hiphop word like, whatevah | |
| Roll a bag o' herbs in the kingsize reefer | |
| And toke upon da sh... like Omar Sharifa | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Boouh! | |
| Wailing unintelligible | |
| Times they be fresh like Kool The Gang, | |
| Back in the days when they used to get down | |
| And nowadays they got men | |
| Knockin' at my door, and cuffin' up my hand | |
| Well they be suckahs and I be brown | |
| Like James, trippin' on a funky sound | |
| I gots the fat, dirty stinkin' fungus | |
| Rollin' down my throat and growin' in my lungus | |
| 47 rings from the bins when I swing | |
| I thinks of the past when I smoke my tins | |
| Nowadays I gets paid for the rhymes when I' m bouncin' | |
| At times be trippin' like Richard Branson | |
| So get off my sound, see | |
| You know it ain' t yours | |
| It belongs to the P | |
| And the superhigh court | |
| Crips they be smilin coz they know they black' n | |
| I rocks the party like scratching | |
| When I walk the street I don' t fear no man | |
| Coz I wear the steel bandit on my hand | |
| It means " Original G", the Biz Markie, | |
| Sugarfree, Pepsi, max out my Sig, | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out the dance for the limelight | |
| True MC' s are born to fight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight | |
| Insteada sellin' out to dance for the limelight |
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