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    LL Cool J
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    (NFA) No Frontin' Allowed

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    Song Info

    (NFA) No Frontin' Allowed
    Released


      About "(NFA) No Frontin' Allowed"

      Lyrics for LL Cool J - "(NFA) No Frontin' Allowed"

      Mad madness
      Trashy
      Brother from way back.
      We're blowing mics
      Since the days of
      8-track.
      Certified
      Bonified
      Pull out the weapon.
      Rusted.
      Your ho's gets busted.
      Run your jules!
      Shooting up ya damn fools.
      Leavin' your loser
      Lazy lyricist
      In bloody pools.
      Went away
      Came back
      Your still wack.
      Now your slobbing Marly's mob
      For a dope track.
      Coming off like a bra
      And its the witness.
      No click-click
      A fru ? business
      Don't care about no money
      Got props in it.
      Flipping scripts
      With every letter in
      The alphabet.
      Wanna jump.
      Jump!
      And jingle your rump.
      Rump!
      Here to pump punks
      With real hot lead chunks.
      Full-grown
      I ain't no baby with
      These rhymes kid.
      Put the mic down
      My peoples know where ya live.
      I chop you little
      Brittle riddle
      Right up the middle
      And have the police
      Playing the fiddle
      In the hospital.
      Somebody said, "He
      Couldn't rip with the
      Roughness."
      Rhymes kick your teeth
      But end up front less.
      Soul survivor of a
      Thousand beats
      Sending funeral wreathes
      To all ya use-to-be chiefs.
      Is a raw
      To a bearlin' in the woods?
      Brothers tapes ain't jack
      Their best tracks is wack.
      I heard you think you
      Got a chance to win
      But my glock is stopped off
      To murder the top ten.
      Rough and rugged and raw
      I'm like a callous.
      The underground can say
      "ain't no Fra-zontin
      In my palace."

      Well can I be the
      Flavor of the month?
      I got the flavor
      Plus I can bump a chump.
      I got the funk
      Straight from my
      Underground hide-out.
      I freak it in the house
      And let the hits just
      Ooz out.
      Bust on the scene
      To let ya know I
      Wasn't fronting
      Got ya screaming for my album
      So I had to do something.
      Write tonight
      To take a bit
      Not a bite.
      And watch the ?
      Freak you with
      All my might.
      Like "Here I am to
      Save the day!"
      I stop the tracks
      With the mic
      So I say "To chay"
      And "On Gaurd"
      When I'm swinging for your brow.
      Cause in the house of hits
      Ain't no fronting allowed.

      Just when you thought
      That it was safe
      To try and chop me.
      Run for ya life
      Now here somes Mr. Funky
      And I'm pissed.
      So watch how many heads
      I'll be the takeout
      Boy ya better look out
      I work ya like a cook-out.
      So get the flavor
      The original Mr. Funky
      ?
      And you watch me do my thing.
      Because I hit ya with the funk
      Of the fly-talker
      And make your girl
      "Bump-bump!
      Get it, get it!"
      Like Luke Skywalker.
      I can't front
      I love rapping with a passion.
      Crash your head front
      Into the funk
      You think I'm slam dancing
      See when you front
      You make mad
      The alter weight ?
      Freak this:
      "funky twin powers activate!"
      Sheik on the mic
      With the cape and muscles.
      Crushing MC's
      While their girls
      Do the hustle.
      See other rappers
      Try to dis the lords
      But yo, your dead wrong.
      Dammit, can't we all
      Just get along?
      We'll see
      There simply ain't no
      Fronting allowed.
      Yo, I'm out
      Like the Cosby show
      Peace to the Funky Child.

      Punching your
      God-damn eyebrows
      Off
      Roughing it up north
      Lookin' like your
      Laugh off ?
      It's a blash smash
      And crash from my stash.
      Be watching your back kid.
      Your girl and the phat path.
      Talking bout your macks and tax.
      What's with that?
      Your getting wet like
      Slow sex.
      Ripping on that old school kid.
      Leaving sliced as a slit
      Says I wet your crib.
      No question.
      Testing the west
      And the east and
      Once the ammo was released and
      I'll make your girl
      Come and getcha.
      Hope you get the picture.
      Boy your better off
      If a pit bit ya!
      What's its like
      In the illest fight.
      Believe the hype.
      I'm giving crowds more
      Nose jobs than Mike.
      Fight sight alright
      They bite
      Spot light tonight
      Is hype
      Trigger happy tripe
      Don't hit bite
      My owner's right.
      And ya know it's coming off
      So don't ask it.
      Snatching the vocal
      And hotties on the rap tip.
      Macking ya boys up.
      Bringing the noise up.
      And now ya need stitches
      Because my voice cuts.
      Chainsaw
      Gain more
      And reign raw.
      And never let a brother play it
      Is my main law.

      SONGWRITERS:
      Kelly, Dupree / Wardrick, Al-Terik / Williams, Marlon Lu'Ree / Smith, Raymond / Armstrong, Tyrone / Smith, James Todd
      Powered and licensed by LyricFind
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