One, one, two, two, three, three
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Too many rappers, and there’s still not enough emcees
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It goes three, three, two, two, one, one
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MCA, Ad-Rock, Mike D, that’s how we get it done like
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Ladies and gents attention, Nas in the house
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With Beastie Boys, we can turn it out
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Perpetrators, we can point 'em out
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So if you got somethin' on your mind, let it out
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Yo, I been in the game since before you was born
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I might still be emceein' even after you’re gone
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Strange thought, I know, but my skills still grow
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The 80's, the 90's, 2000's, and so
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On and on until the crack of dawn
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Until the year 3000 and beyond
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Stay up all night, and I emcee and never die
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'Cause death is the cousin of sleep
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Because I’m back with a bang boogie, oogie oogie
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Strawberry letter 23 like Shuggie
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Oh, my God, just look at me
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Grandpa been rappin' since '83
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Oh, I’m supersonic like J.J. |
Fad
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Got crazy ass shit pullin' out the bag
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Don’t forget the tartar sauce, yo, 'cause it’s sad
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All these crap rappers, they’re rappin' like crabs
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I have carte blanche, the vagabond
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Nas is the narcissist, my pockets are rotund
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I’m no killa, but compared to you, I’m more real’a
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You ain’t a shot, a mobster, or a drug dealer
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A slug peeler, you’re not, mafioso, no
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You ain’t got the cutthroat in ya, beginner
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I ain’t tryin' to hear your racket
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You work with police dog, you snitch, you rat, you wear that jacket
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How many rappers must get dissed
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Gimme eight bars, and watch me bless this
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I start to reminisce, oh, when I miss
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The real hip hop with which I persist
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Like rum in mojitos, bullets and banditos
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Matzah balls in soup, jackets and troop
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Yes, y’all, this is one for the history books
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Nasty Nas, what’s the word, count it off on the hook
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Let’s go! |
One, one, two, two, three, three
|
Too many rappers, and there’s still not enough emcees
|
It goes three, three, two, two, one, one
|
MCA, Ad-Rock, Mike D, that’s how we get it done like
|
Ladies and gents attention, Nas in the house
|
With Beastie Boys, we can turn it out
|
Perpetrators, we can point 'em out
|
So if you got somethin' on your mind, let it out
|
'Cause this the type of lyric goes inside your brain
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To blow you bullshit rappers straight out the frame
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My lyrics spin round like a hurricane twister
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So get your hologram on off of Wolf Blitzer
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Too many rappers to shake a stick at
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I outta charge a tax for every weak rap
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I had to listen to 'cause we be makin' stacks
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Like Stax Records, my squad we gotta pack, we never coming whack
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To all you crab rappers and hackers
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And Circuit Fenders, two-tone splendor
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I take the cake, I stole the mold
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The golden microphone, well that’s mine to hold
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And why all these biters all up in my crotch space?
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Sniffin', puffin', huffin', and mean muggin' with a Blimpie Bluffin
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Back up off me, sucka, you ain’t sayin' nothin'
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I’m broader than Broadway, I was in project hallways
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Dual tape recorder, lacin' oratorials all day
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I’m just getting started on this beat, this is foreplay
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And when this song finished, y’all can sing along with this
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By the way, I have a strong fetish for Christian Louboutin steppers
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I hear Russian blonde’s the wettest
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But anyway, I better pay homage to my fellas
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And that’s what’s on my mind and the rhyme, who’s next up?
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Mike D, the man of mystery
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History in the makin', and now we’re takin'
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Titles, awards, and accolades
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Scarin' the competition as I sharpen my blades
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We come together like peanut butter and sandwiches
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Like pen and paper, like Picasso and canvases
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Rockin' stadiums and shitty bars
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Go back in time, send a fax from my car
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One, one, two, two, three, three
|
Too many rappers, and there’s still not enough emcees
|
It goes three, three, two, two, one, one
|
MCA, Ad-Rock, Mike D, that’s how we get it done like
|
Ladies and gents attention, Nas in the house
|
With Beastie Boys, we can turn it out
|
Perpetrators, we can point 'em out
|
So if you got somethin' on your mind, let it out |