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Artist: Beastie Boys f/ Nas
Album:  Hot Sauce Committee Part Two
Song:   Too Many Rappers
Typed by: OHHLA Webmaster DJ Flash

Mic.. check
Haha, mic check

[Chorus: Nas]
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!

Like an exorcist, goin home to roost
Hand held the demon it's time to get loose
No need for ear goggles, we put it through the speakers
like a scientist, with tubes and beakers
Have emcees all at my house, ash and blunts
Bunch of a rappers, be goin out, goin dust
So pass me the sword - I'll start swingin
Just randomly choppin on a crazy-ass vision

[Ad Rock]
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 eighty-three
I'm "Supersonic" like J.J. Fad
Crazy ass shit pullin out the bag
Don't forget the tartar sauce yo, cause it's sad
All these crap rappers, they're rappin like crabs

I have carte blanche, the vagabond
Nas is the narcissist, my pockets are rotund
I'm no killer, but compared to you, I'm more realer
You ain't a shotter, 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 for police dog, you snitch, you rat, you wear that jacket

[Mike D]
H-h-how many rappers must get dissed
Gimme eight bars and watch me bless this
I start to reminisce, oh when I miss
The real hip-hop with which I persist
Like rum in mojitos, bullets and banditos
Matzah 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
(Let's go!)


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 of Wolf Blitzer
Too many rappers to shake a stick at
I outta charge a tax, for every weak rap
I had to listen to cause we been makin stacks, like Stax Records
My squad we got a pack, we never comin wack

[Ad Rock]
To all you crab rappers, and hackers
And circuit benders, two-tone splendor
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 crotch space?
Sniffin, puffin, huffin
And mean muggin with a Blimpie bluffin
Back up off me sucker you ain't sayin nothin

I'm broader than Broadway, I was in project hallways
Dual tape recorder, lacin oratorials all day
I'm just gettin started on this beat, this is foreplay
And when this song finished, y'all can sing along with this
By the way, I have a strong fetish for Christian Louboutin steppers
I hear Russian blondes 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]
Yeapppp! 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