Chuck Chillout - How to k** a Radio Consultant (The DJ Chuck Chillout Mega Murder Boom) lyrics

Pusher of the bu*ton Talkin' loud ain't sayin' nuttin' The mack of the format gettin' fat Ain't funny 'cause my neighborhood Is flowin' money Thank God 4 the boulevard They keep the motor runnin' The rap shows coincide wit' the tape flow Bootleggers go inside and record the record low They get me, get this now can you freestyle Freestyle no styles free except da radio But the radio controlled by the s**er move Who moved away got away after plannin' a getaway An now he wanna play what he wanna play An got say on what is bumpin' of course he's gettin' somethin' Never know what's good to tha neighborhood Swear I never seen da s**er In my necka da woods The a** is connected to the brain stem So I sing a simple song So you can see the s**er in 'em People got to make a call To hear the yes y'all (yes y'all) While the phone keep ringin' You hear some singer singin' Why don't dey play the jammy in the daytime People think it's slammin' plus the rhyme Is hot an got me tunin' The afternoon is FM in the PM Oh if that they could see 'im Out-of-towner not down I think they'll dis him Up goes the season, pop goes the weasel Damn gimme rap no band I want some x-clan I know dey even got it from the giddy Stacked in the back Only black radio station in the city Programmed by a s**er in a suit Slick back hair he don't even live here Raps the number one pick so I draft it I don't care about all the other demographics When the quiet storm come on I fall sleep What dey need is Arbitron on the funky jeep Too bad it's goin' on in fact my word is bond To pull a disappearin' act attack until he gone The whacker jam he play they pay I'm in da day I don't think we gonna miss 'im we don't need 'im anyway Can I kick it Who the hell is on the radio Or who's behind Do you really think they'll mind To play the funky jams That everybody wit' Some Def Jef or Ice T Show they rollin' wit' the syndicate Or can dey get funky Wit' the underground Master ace get a taste Bomb squad gettin' hard Marley mart makin' hipper Trax for Jack The Ripper Pumpin' Eric B or Papa San Still rollin' wit' run Did you think that ever In fact you thought that never Control of your soul Is by a suit and tie Then U wonder why why U never hear a rhyme I say we do 'im Till it's done