I Got It Bad, Y´All
I Got It Bad, Y´All

I Got It Bad, Y´All easy guitar chords by King Tee

N/A
Guitar
Tuning

E A D G B E

Capo

Fret 1

Capo

Transpose

0

Capo
  • C

  • G

  • A

  • B

    2
  • E

  • Eaug

    5
  • C

  • G

  • A

  • B

    2
  • E

  • Eaug

    5
  • Verse 1
    Intro: 

    Ladies and 
    gentle
    man, 

    that 
    nigga 
    king 
    tee 
    and 
    the 
    al- 
    cum- a- holiks 

    Verse one: j- ro 

    Verse 2
    Pooh- 
    butts 
    play 
    the rear 
    cause 

    I'm makin 
    yapes 

    The rhymes 
    ain't 
    no thicker 

    than 
    a, skittle 
    grapes 

    A lot 
    of girls 
    would like 
    to thank 
    me, 

    for 
    the hanky- 
    panky 

    On the 
    mic 
    I hold 
    a belt, 

    now 
    I know no 
    one could 
    spank 
    me 

    It took 
    a long 
    time 
    for 
    the people, 

    to 
    hear 
    my rhymes 

    Seems 
    like I been 
    rappin 

    since my 
    birth 
    in 
    '69 

    Sorry 
    to keep 
    you waitin, 

    I run 
    rhymes 
    like 
    walter 
    payton 

    I get 
    a rhyme like 
    spokes 
    on 
    a dayton 

    But 
    I won't 
    knock 
    off, 

    because 
    I just 
    rock 
    off 

    The beats 
    to get 
    funky, 

    like when 
    you take 
    your sock 
    off 

    To all 
    the white 
    folks 
    I would 

    like 
    to say 
    howdy 

    And to 
    all 
    my brothers 
    I say 

    peace 
    quit actin 
    rowdy 

    Wack 
    mcs in 
    ninety- 
    two, 

    ew 
    you need 
    to 
    take 
    a rest 

    The public 
    don't 
    you aim 
    the best 

    you're softer 
    than 
    a hookers 
    chest 

    Raps, 
    I make 
    em, 
    snaps, 
    I make 
    em 

    For 
    duties 
    movin 
    booties 
    cause 

    I shake 
    shake 
    shake 
    em 

    And I 
    got rhymes, 
    funky 
    funky 
    rhymes 

    E- swift 
    hold 
    the needle 
    down 

    with nickels 
    and dimes 

    I drink 
    olde 
    english, 

    st. 
    ide's 
    and 
    mickeys 

    When 
    it's time 
    to roll 
    I throw 

    on my 
    black 
    dickeys 

    On 
    the mic 
    I get 
    wicked, 
    like 
    wilson 
    pickett 

    get 
    the place 
    jumpin 
    like 
    a cricket 

    when 
    I kick 
    shit 

    I'm from 
    the west 
    coast 
    but don't 

    sleep 
    home- 
    stimpy 

    Even if 
    I was 
    paperboy you 

    still 
    couldn't 
    rip 
    me 

    I walk 
    up 
    and chalk 
    up pairs 

    like the 
    knicks 

    I'm all 
    in 
    the mix 
    like 
    snares, 
    and kicks 

    When 
    it comes 
    to rhymes 
    I get 

    loose like 
    belt 
    buckles 

    Those 
    who chose 
    to oppose 
    this nose 

    Verse 3
    is felt 
    knuckles 

    (where you goin' 
    to? 

    ) to 
    the tip 

    (and what 
    cha 
    bout 

    to do? 
    ) bout to 
    rip 

    Some 
    people 
    use 
    the word 

    funky 
    too 
    loosely 

    And 
    just 
    how many 
    rappers 
    say they 

    kick 
    it like 
    bruce 
    lee 

    (what's your 
    fa
    vorite 

    brew? 
    ) olde 

    (and what 
    it 
    make 
    you do? 
    ) go 
    pee 

    It 
    used 
    to be 
    about 
    rhymes, 

    all 
    about 
    rhymes 

    Now 
    rappers 
    rearrangin, and 

    changin 
    like 
    times 

    I got 
    it 
    bad 
    y'all, 
    I got 
    it bad 
    y'all 

    When 
    it 
    comes 
    to 
    the 
    pen 

    and 
    the pad 
    y'all 

    I got 
    it 
    bad 
    y'all, 
    I got 
    it 
    bad 
    y'all 

    When 
    it 
    comes 
    to the 
    pen 
    and 
    the 
    pad 

    y'all 


    Verse 4

    Verse 
    two: 
    e- swift 

    Back 
    the fuck 
    up, 
    gimme 
    room 
    to breath 

    Not 
    too many 
    niggaz can flip 

    the rhymes 
    like these 

    I freak 
    the 
    technique 
    as if 
    it was 
    a bitch 

    Got 
    more soul 
    than 
    the 
    pit 
    with 
    a fifth 

    Pitch 
    the ball, 
    so 
    I can 
    beat 
    it with the 
    bat 

    Talk 
    some shit, 

    so 
    I can 
    smoke 
    ya with my 
    gat 

    I'm feelin 
    kind 
    feelin 
    kinda 

    feelin 
    kinda 
    feelin 
    kinda 

    Feelin 
    kinda 
    buzzed 
    off 

    a sack 
    of chocolate 
    tie 

    My 
    my 
    my 
    ho, I like 
    to rip 
    the shows 
    up 

    Smack 
    the hoes 
    that walk 

    around 
    with 
    they nose 
    up 

    Run 
    to 
    the liquor 
    store, 

    before 
    they 
    close 
    up 

    Buy 
    a few 
    40s, cause daily 
    I get 
    to' 
    up 

    Sit 
    at the 
    crib 
    and write 
    riggy riggy rhymes 

    Line 
    after 
    line 
    after 
    liggy liggy line 

    Yo 
    I can 
    get 
    funky, 

    buy 
    my tape 
    and bump 
    me 

    To 
    the break 
    of dawn 
    I hit 

    the bud 
    and pass 
    it on 

    Hangin 
    at 
    the park, 

    shootin 
    craps 
    on 
    the weekend 

    My brown 
    bag 
    is wet 
    cause 

    my tall 
    can 
    is leakin 

    Starin 
    at 
    the cops, 
    beatin 
    up 
    on rodney 

    While 
    a pack 
    of 
    o.g.'s steppin 

    to 
    me tryin 
    to rob 
    me 

    Just 
    because 
    I'm 
    dope, 

    niggaz wanna 
    smoke 
    me 

    On 
    the mic 
    I get 
    funky 
    while 

    you're doin 
    the hokey- 
    pokey 

    Dance 
    steps, 

    I think 
    that you should 
    leave to 
    paula 

    Alkaholiks is 
    the shit, 

    e- swift's 
    the smooth 
    bawler 

    Is 
    slangin these 
    rhymes 
    like 
    a rock 

    Life 
    ain't 
    shit 
    but 
    money 
    and 
    glock 

    Don't 
    punch 
    a clock, 

    but 
    I cock 
    a fat 
    knot 

    So I can 
    smoke 
    a lot 
    of pot 

    that 
    I roll 
    up with 
    tops 

    And 
    ya ain't 
    heard shit 
    yet, 

    I'm just 
    gettin 
    warm 

    Like 
    hot 
    butter 
    on, 

    say 
    what? , the 
    pop
    corn 

    I'm headed 
    to 
    the top, 

    please 
    give me my 
    props 

    My 
    beats 
    are fat 
    as fuck 

    so bump 
    my 
    shit 
    in 
    your 
    box 

    love 
    to hit the 
    skinz, but 
    then 

    again 
    who doesn't 

    I love 
    to hit the 
    herbs 
    cause 
    it leave 

    me feelin 
    buzzin 

    I dedicate 
    this 
    chumpie to 

    the poets 
    who can 
    wreck 

    And 
    to all 
    the 
    nottie dreads 
    I gots 

    to give 
    them nuff 
    respect 

    Verse 5
    (where you 
    goin' 
    to? 

    ) to the 
    tip 

    (and what cha 
    bout 
    to do? 

    ) bout 
    to 
    rip 

    Some 
    people 
    use the 
    word 

    funky 
    too 
    loosely 

    And 
    just 
    how many 
    niggaz say they 

    kick 
    it like 
    bruce 
    lee 

    (what's your 
    favorite 

    brew? 
    ) olde 

    (and what 
    it 
    make 
    you do? 
    ) go 
    pee 

    It 
    used 
    to be 
    about 
    rhymes, 

    all 
    about 
    rhymes 

    Now 
    rappers 
    rearrangin, and 

    changin 
    like 
    times 

    I got 
    it bad 
    y'all, 
    I got 
    it bad 
    y'all 

    When 
    it comes 
    to the 
    pen 

    and 
    the pad 
    y'all 

    I got 
    it 
    bad 
    y'all, 
    I got 
    it 
    bad 
    y'all 

    When 
    it comes 
    to the 
    pen 
    and 

    the 
    pad 
    y'all 

    Verse 
    Verse 6
    three: 

    king tee 

    Verse 7
    Up jumps 
    the man 
    with 
    the loot 

    Rockin 
    like 
    troop 
    with 
    the 

    alkaholik group 

    Everything 
    is kosher, 
    got 
    a little 
    taller 

    Livin 
    kinda 
    phat 
    cause 
    king 

    tee's 
    a bawler 

    I just, 
    irritate 
    the wack, 

    leave 
    em so 
    confused 

    When 
    I'm 
    checkin on 
    the mic 

    with the 
    ones 
    and 
    twos 

    Sneak 
    you 
    a peek 
    of 

    the drunk 
    technique 

    Can't 
    stand 
    up, 
    need 
    to take 
    a seat 

    Baby 
    baby 
    baby 
    it's 
    the 
    alkaholiks 

    But I can 
    freak 
    the mic 
    no matter 

    how 
    ya 
    call 
    it 

    Metaphors 
    grand, 

    and I'm 
    the great 
    man 

    Drink 
    a whole 
    fifth 
    yes 
    I can 
    yes 
    I can 
    can 

    The girls 
    call 
    me 
    dick- 
    em- down 

    Got 
    that 
    title 
    rockin 
    for 
    the crown 

    Catch 
    y'all 
    later, 
    around 
    next 
    weekend 

    I'm 
    a alkaholik and 
    I'm late 
    for my 
    meeting 


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