Professor Booty

Album: Check Your Head (1992)
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  • 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 Writer/s: ADAM HOROVITZ, ADAM NATHANIEL YAUCH, MARIO CALDATO JR., MICHAEL LOUIS DIAMOND
    Publisher: Universal Music Publishing Group
    Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind

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