Lyrics 3-Minute Rule - Beastie Boys

3-Minute Rule

I stay up all night, I go to sleep watching Dragnet
Never sleep alone because Jimmy is the magnet
I’m so rope, they call me Mr. Roper
When the troubles arise, you know I’m the cool coper
On the mic I score, just like the Yankees
Get over on Miss Crabtree like my main man Spankee
Excuse me young lady, I don’t mean to trouble ya
But you’re lookin' so fly inside your BMW
I got lucky, I brought home the kitten
Before I got busy, I slipped on the mitten
Can’t get better odds because I’m a sure thing
Proud Mary keeps on turning and rolling like a Ring-Ding
Jump the turnstiles, never pay the toll
Doo-wah diddy and bust in with the pre-roll
Customs jailed me over an herb seed
Don’t rat on your boy over some rat weed
I’m outta your back door, I’m into another
Your boyfriend doesn’t know about me and your mother
Not perfect grammar, always perfect timing
The Mike stands for money and the D is for diamonds
Roses are red, the sky is blue
I got my barrel at your neck, so what the fuck you gonna do
It’s just two wheels and me, the wind in my eyes
The engine is the music and my nine’s by my side
Cause you know Y-A-U-C-H
I’m taking all emcees out in the place
Takin' life as it comes, no fool am I
I’m goin' off, gettin' paid, and I don’t ask why
Playin' beats on my box, makin' music for the many
Know a lot of def girls that’ll do anything
A lot of parents like to think I’m a villain
I’m just chillin', like Bob Dylan
Yeah, I smoke cheeba, it helps me with my brain
I might be a little dusted but I’m not insane
People come up to me and they try to talk shit
Man, I was making records when you were suckin' your mother’s dick
Girl, you’re walking tall now in your fancy clothes
You got fancy things, they’re going up your nose
You’re getting fancy gifts from expensive men
You’re a dog on a leash, like a pig in a pen
Mothership connection, getting girls' affection
If your life needs correction, don’t follow my direction
You got your 8 by 10, your agent, your Harley
You be driving around Hollywood with yo, 'Sorry, Charlie'
Cause I’m running things like some mack motherfucker
You slipin', you slackin', cause you’re a false fake sucker
You slip, you slack;
you clock me, and you lack
While I’m reading «On The Road» by my man, Jack Kerouac
Poetry in motion, coconut lotion
Had to diss the girl because she got too emotional
Are you experienced, little girl?
I want to know what goes on in your little girl world
Cause I’m on your mind, it’s hard to forget me
I’ll take your pride for a ride if you let me
So peace out, y’all, a PCP, song out
Full throttle to the bottle and full, full clout
And I’m out