Two, three, four
One, two, three
Well, it doesn't matter
Well, when I tell you the story
None the less,
I'm quite used to it
It won't be running in TV-Funk (magazine). -
Yes, she was young,
Her heart so pure and white
And every night has its price.
She says: "Sugar Sweet,
ya got me rappin' to the heat!"
I understand, she's hot,
She says: "Baby, you know,
I miss my funky friends,"
She means Jack and Joe and Jill.
My understanding of funk,
yeah, it'll do in a crunch,
I understand what she wants now. -
I think it over,
Her nose does the talking,
While I continue to smoke,
She knows the 'Special Places' very well;
I think she takes the metro, too.
There they're singing:
"Don't turn around, look, look,
the Kommissar is out and about!
He'll keep his eye on you
and you know why.
Your zest for life will kill you."
All right, Mr. Commissioner?
Hey man, wanna buy some stuff, man?
Did you ever rap that thing Jack?
So rap it to the beat!
We meet Jill and Joe
And his bother hip
And also the rest of the cool Gang
They rap to, they rap fro
In between they scrape it off the walls. -
This case is clear,
Dear Mr. Commissioner,
Even if you have a different opinion:
The snow on which we all
ski downhill,
every child knows.
Now the nursery rhyme:
"Don't turn around, look, look,
the Kommissar is out and about!
He has the power and we're little and dumb;
this frustration makes us mum."
"Don't turn around, look, look,
the Kommissar is out and about!
When he talks to you
and you know why,
tell him:
'Your life is killing you.'"
