Professor Booty Lyrics - Check Your Head - Beastie Boys

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 (looking 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 

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 you 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 in my low-rider bicyle 

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 should have 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 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 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