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.'"