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