I’m going to cause an accident soon.
I have this problem.
Hello everybody, I’m a Funkaholic.
My funk and soul playlist is too good.
I’ll be driving to a meeting and then it will come on slowly.
Ill snap a finger,
nod my head or tap the steering wheel.
Without warning it’s disco infection at the single’s karaoke bar and I’m the drunk 50 year old who loves the mic a little too much.
BABY COME BACK! YOU CAN BLAME IT ALL ON ME! I WAS WRONG AND I JUST CANT LIVE WITHOUT YOU!
It’s not the singing that makes listening to funk dangerous to yo booty.
It’s the dancing.
The in the seat soul shuffle,
The snapping fingers on both hands while I’m closing my eyes in the intensity going 80.
Envisioning the OG lockers wrist-rolling their way through my thoughts.
Suspenders down to their knees, applejack hats hanging over one eye and colors that are so bright home depot couldn’t match it.
Funk is so serious that “givin up food for funk”,
is an actual song.
This means that Some lucky bastard lives off guitar rifts, soulful nasty keyboard solos and sexy sexy baritone lyrics.
OOOoooo girl the way you do the things you do, make me have the jones for you, all the time, all the time.
Take me up to the mothership cuz I want my funk uncut.
Gimmie that P Funk.
Cuz I want to get funked UP!
Ya Dig?
