Lyrics The New Style - Beastie Boys

The New Style

And on the cool check-in
Center-stage on the mic
And we puttin' it on wax;
It’s the new style
Four and three and two and one (What up?)
And when I’m on the mic—the suckers run (Word!)
Down with Ad-Rock and Mike D, and you ain’t
And I got more juice than Picasso got paint
Got rhymes that are rough and rhymes that are slick
I’m not surprised you’re on my dick (Mike D!)
What up, Mike D?
Aw—yeah—that's me
I got franks and pork and beans
Always bust the new routines
I get it, I got it—I know it’s good
The rhymes I write—you wish you would
I’m never in training, my voice is not straining
People always biting, and I’m sick of complaining
So I went into the locker room, during classes
Went into your locker and I smashed your glasses
You’re from Secaucus—I'm from Manhattan
You’re jealous of me because your girlfriend is cattin'
(«There it is»)
Kick it!
Father to many—married to none
And in case you’re unaware;
I carry a gun (Word)
Stepped into the party—the place was over-packed
Saw the kid that dissed my homeboy, shot him in the back
Man, I had to get a beeper 'cause my phone is tapped
You better keep your mouth shut 'cause I’m fully strapped
I got money in the bank—I can still get high
That’s why your girlfriend thinks that I’m so fly
I’ve got money and juice—twin sisters in my bed
Their father had envy so I shot him in the head
If I played guitar, I’d be Jimmy Page
The girlies I like are underage (Shh! Check it)
Girls with boyfriends are the kinds I like
I’ll steal your honey like I stole your bike
My father—he's jealous 'cause I’m making that green (What up?)
I’ve got a list of girlies' numbers from the places I’ve been
(«There it is»)
Kick it!
You wanna know why?
Because I’m—
October 31st, that is my date of birth
I got to the party, you know what I did?
The Smurf!
Taxin' all the females, from coast to coast
And when I get my fill, I’m chilly most
We ragtag girlies back at the hotel
And then we all switch places when I ring the bell
I chill at White Castle 'cause it’s the best
But I’m fly at Fatburger when—when he’s—I'm way out west (Check it)
All the fine ladies, they’re on my jammy
Went to the prom—wore the fly, blue rental
Got six girlies in my Lincoln Continental
I met a girl at the party and she started to flirt
I told her some rhymes and she pulled up her skirt (Check it)
Spent some bank, got a high powered jumbo
Rolled up a wooly—what'd he do?—and I watched Columbo
Let me clear my throat
Kick it over here, baby pop
And let all the fly skimmies feel the beat—
Mmm—drop
Coolin' on the corner on a hot summer’s day
Just me, my posse, and—MCA
A lot of beer, a lot of girls, and a lot of cursin'
.22 automatic on my person
Got my hand in my pocket and my finger’s on the trigger
My posse’s gettin' big—and my posse’s gettin' bigger
Some voices got treble—some voices got bass
We got the kind of voices that are in your face!
Like the bun to the burger—and like the burger to the bun
Like the cherry—to the apple—to the peach—to the plum
I’m the King of the Ave.—and I’m the king of the block
Well, I’m MCA—and I’m the King Ad-Rock
Well, I’m Mike D—I got all the fly juice
On the checkin' at the party on the Forty Deuce
Walking down the block with the fresh, fly threads
Beastie Boys—fly the biggest heads
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho…
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho…
Brooklyn, ho
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho…