Paroles: Prince. The Black Album. Dead On It.

Riding in my Thunderbird on the freeway
I turned on my radio to hear some music play
I got a silly rapper talking silly shit instead
And the only good rapper is one that's dead on it

Uh, dead on it, shall we go back?
Yeah, let's go

Negroes from Brooklyn play the bass pretty good
But the ones from Minneapolis play it like it oughta should
A magnum fro is better when you got a poof on it
And the to and fro is funky when the grease is dead on it

Funky dead on it
Uh, dead on it, on it
Shall we go back? Let's go
They're dead on it, wow

See the rapper's problem
Usually stem from being tone deaf
Pack the house then try to sing
There won't be no one left on it

Parking lot's on fire, brothers peeling out of the town
They say in disgust, they singing their guts
Rapping done let us down
You got to be dead on it, dead on it, dead

All the sisters like it when you lick 'em on the knees
Don't believe me? No
Try it once then stop, they'll be begging
Please, please, please

Shoo be doo wa, dead on it
What does that have to do with the funk?
Nothing, but who's paying the bills?
If you don't wanna lick my knees, I'm sure your mama will

Uh, 'cause we, 'cause we, 'cause we dead on it
De-de-dead on it, on it

La, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la

My bed's a coffin, Dracula ain't got shit on me
My nickname's hell's-a-popping, I'm badder than the wicked witch
I got a gold tooth, costs more than your house
I got a diamond ring on four fingers, each one the size of a mouse

They dead, they dead on it

La, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la

La, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la

Wait now, hang up, dial tone on the three
You know, you know, I'm busy, to scizzy
Can't nobody fuck with me
'Cause I'm dead, on it, dead, on it, on it on it