Professor Booty

[Intro]

"Yo, I don't hang out with those guys, man, I ain't got nothing to do with those dudes."

"Wait a minute, I saw your female with 'em, too. What's up with her? I've been hearin' that she been givin' that stuff out to ALL them graffiti guys."

"Yo, shut the fuck up, Chico, man!"

"I could paint three of those murals for some of that ass."

"Professor, what's another word for 'pirate treasure'?"

"Well, I think it's 'booty-booty-booty, that's what it is"

[Adrock]

Yes, I got more bounce than the fucking bump

And then you want to know why because I'm motherfuckin' truckin'

I'm in the pocket just like Grady Tate

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 has to (Lookin' good!)

So light a match to my ass 'cause I'm blowin' up

I'd like to thank the people for just showin' up

But now I want y'all to move it

Put your point on the floor and just prove it

And I'm smurfin', not rehearsin', gettin' live, y'all

A little puffy, so you know what, I'm doin' right

'Cause that's the kind of frame of mind I'm in

I got this feelin' that it's back again

So don't touch me, 'cause I'm electric

And if you touch me, you'll get shocked

"Well, I think it's 'booty-booty-"

[Mike D]

You got, you got, you got, you got, you got

You've got the boomin' system, but it's sloshing out doo-doo

You think it's chocolate milk, but it's watered down Yoo-hoo

I've been through many times in which I thought I might lose it

The only thing that saved me has always been music

We've got our own studio, the Son of the G

It's no question, life's been good to me

'Cause life ain't nothing but a good groove

A good mixtape to put ya in the right mood

This one goes out to my man, the Groove Merchant

Coming through with beats for which I've been searching

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 on my low-rider bicycle

You think you know but you don't

But you do it, but you do it all night ("Booty-booty-")

"Booty-booty-"

"Hold, man, that's [?]"

[MCA]

So many wack emcees, you get the TV bozak

Ain't even gonna call out your names, 'cause you're so wack

And one big oaf, who's faker than plastic

A dictionary definition of the word spastic

You shoulda never started something that you couldn't finish

'Cause writin' rhymes to me is like Popeye to spinach

I'm bad ass, move ya fat ass, 'cause you're wack, son

Dancing around like you think you're Janet Jackson

Thought you could walk on me to get some ground to walk on

I'll put the rug out under your ass as I talk on

I'll take you out like a sniper on a roof

Like an emcee at the fever in the DJ booth

With your headphones strapped, you're rockin' rewind/pause

Tryin' to figure out what you can do to go for yours

But like a pencil to the 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 your shit'll be stinkin' when I go for mine

And that's right, y'all, don't get uptight, y'all

You can't say shit because you're biting what I write, y'all

And that's wrong, y'all, over the long haul

You can't cut the mustard when you're fronting it all

(it all, it all, it all…)