Professor Booty (Remastered 2009)

Yo, I don't hang out with those guys Man, I ain't got nothin' to do with those dudes Man, 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 Yes, I got more bounce than the fuckin' 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 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 is back again So don't touch me, 'cause I'm electric And if you touch me, you'll get shocked, shocked, shocked, shocked... (Well, I think it's booty, booty, booty) 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 shinin' just like an icicle I ride around town on my low-rider bicycle Do you know, but know you're telling me to do it I light my own... (Booty, booty, booty Oh, baby, that's the way it is) So many wack MCs, you get the TV bozack Ain't even gonna call out your names, 'cause you're so wack But one big oaf whose 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 badass, move your fat ass, 'cause you're wack, son Dancin' 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 from under your ass as I talk on I'll take you out like a sniper on a roof Like an MC 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 the 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