Testo della canzone Martial Law (George Clinton), tratta dall'album Hey Man... Smell My Finger

Martial Law - George Clinton

Boosting the bass volume to a deaf range
Crackin' a bottle of champagne
They exchanged lyrical gratifications verbalizing the form of a toast

It's gonna take Martial Law
Curfew ain't gonna get it
It's gonna take Martial Law
We're used to funkin' after hours (repeat)

Funk is dead is what they said
While sittin' 'round cheatin' at pool—smooth
Bags baggin' and they weren't braggin'
To tell the truth they were lookin' real cool
They were choked up tight in their white on white
Cocoa brown fronts were down
They wore candy striped ties hangin' down to their flies
Sported gold dust crowns


Before I shrivel up and die
Let me tell you a little story 'bout the FBI
The CIA, LAPD of the USA
Ask 'em why I list 'em
Talkin' 'bout that system
Let us take a look and see what's up today
They're takin' away the rights from the people, that's wrong
What did King say "Can't we get along?"
Beat down by the man whose check he paid
Stacey Koons was just a drop
In the bucket full of wicked cops
No fire hose could wash that blood away

It was the fifteenth frame of a straight pool game and they all stood diggin' the play
With an idle shrug they suddenly dug a strange cat movin' their way
He was a medium built cat with a funny type hat
Looked about five years old he wore a messed up vibe
He needed a shine, he shivered as if he was cold
Ah, but to all the other guys, they summized
The dude was a motherfunkin' flunky
But the well-trained eyes of how the mother ship flies
You could tell the sucker was funky
Homeboy grinned as the dude moved in
Askin' had they seen the doc
They said they hadn't seen him but heard he was fiendin'
He had went to the studio to cop
Ah, but if you got eyes coppin' size I can cop the P I'm in the flow
LP's, CD's, cassettes and 8-tracks all good to go
But you got to post bail, my man's wholesale,
He's the only connect I know

Flash me some bread the brother said
Freeze here while I go score
Well I got the bread but I'm leary, he said
I'm playin' with the big band you know
Homey had plans to burn the man, to take his money and blow
But then he hesitated, ah cuz he had underestimated
Now he's got to do the real show
He said I can cop a piece on a small time lease
You don't have to put up no ends, find you a stump to fit your rump
I'll sure back in ten
Ah, but as the brother stepped off up crept another brother
Yo grab yourself a stick
Said the little man I'm not a throw off worse yet I'm a show-off
As he chalked and broke the balls with his dick
Runnin' the three the five the seven and twelve
Blood said yo mama and the fifteen fell
With combinations of English and bankin'
He cued up to break rack three
Yo, lookin' over his bridge past the ball to the figure near the wall
Strokin' his stick, sayin' hold my thing while I go P


Taking the cue from the man in view
He followed him into out of sight
Where upon he paused or rather he stopped
Pressin' the rewind then play on the beat box
The funk was a phony, a fake and a fraud, bootleg copies to boot
Not funk with a P on it but funk with a 3 on it
Now comes the time to salute
He says here's to beggin' duplicatin' and bootleggin'
Here's to the funk on which I'm high
The man made a pass, flashed a gold colored badge and said here's to I'm the FBI
Homeboy grinned as he said my friend
You want to make an example out of me
Cuz I stole a little funk and I sold a little bunk funk
Some pervert rapes your daughter and goes free
The man said with a grin, that's not why you lose and I win
If you're gonna steal the funk steal the motherfunkin' P!


Writer(s): Bernard Worrell, David Spradley, Garry Shider, Walter Morrison, William Earl Collins, Phillippe Wynn, Kerry Gordy, William Bryant Iii, George Jr Clinton
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