Beastie Boys – Professor Booty


MCA- Yo I don’t hang out with those guys,
Man I ain’t got nothing to do with those dudes.
Adrock- Man I saw your female with too, what’s up wit her?
Mike D- I hear that she’s been giving that stuff out
To all them graffiti guys.
MCA- Yo shut the fuck up Chico man!
Adrock- I’d paint three of those murals for some of that ass.
Mike D- Professor, what’s another word for pirate treasure?
Professor- Why I think it’s booty

Yes, I got more bounce to the fucking bumpin’
And you want to know why because I’m mother fucking truckin’
I’m in the pocket just like Grady Tate
I got supplies of beats, so you don’t have to wait
‘Cause I’m the master blaster, drinking up the shasta
My voice sounds sweet ’cause it hasta
So light a match to my ass cause I’m blowin’ up
I’d like thank you people for just showin’ up
But now I want y’all to move it
Put your point on the floor and just prove it
Said I’m smurfin’ not rehearsin’, getting live y’all
A little puffy so you know what I’m doing right
’cause’ that’s the kind of frame of mind I’m in
I got this feelin’ and it’s back again
So don’t touch me, cause I’m electric
And if you touch me you’ll shocked!(echoes out)

You got, you got, you got, you got, you got
You got the boomin’ system but it’s blastin’ out doo
Do you think it’s chocolate milk, but it’s watered down yoo-hoo
I been through many times for which I thought I might lose it
The only thing that saved me, has always been music
We got our studio, it’s under the G
It’s no question life’s been good to me
‘Cause’ life ain’t nothing but a good groove
A good mix tape to put you in the right mood
Said, this one goes out to my man the groove merchant
Coming through with beats, for which I been searchin’
Like two sealed copies, of expansions
I’m like Tom Vu with yachts and mansions
The logo I sport is the face of the monkey
Union made, Ben Davis quality it’s no junk see
My chrome is shining, just like an icicle
I ride around town in my low-rider bicycle!(echoes out)

So many wack M.C’s, you get that T.V. bozak
Ain’t even gonna call out your names ’cause ya’ so wack
And one big oaf, who’s faker than plastic
A dictionary definition of the word spastic
You shoulda’ never started something you couldn’t finish
‘Cause’ writing rhymes to me is like Popeye to spinach
I’m bas ass, move ya’ fat ass, ’cause your wack son
Dancing around like you think your Janet Jackson
Thought you could walk on me to get some kinda’ walk
I’ll pull a rug out from undereath your ass as I talk on
I’ll take you out like a sniper on a roof
Like an m.c. at the fever in the d.j. booth
With your head phones strapped, ya’ rocking rewind pause
Trying to figure out what you to do to go for yours
But, like a pencil to a paper I got more to come
One after another you can all get some
So you better take your time, and meditate on your rhyme
‘Cause ya’ shit’ll be stinking when I go for mine
And that’s right y’all
Don’t get uptight y’all
You say shit when I bite, when I write y’all
And that’s wrong y’all
Over the long haul
You can’t cut the mustard when fronting it on,it on (echoes out)

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