Well, how you feeling, Ad-Rock?
Well, I'm feeling well
Bonafide, qualified, with a story to tell

Well, how you feeling, Mike D?
Well, I feel all good
All day is how we play in the neighborhood

Well, how you feeling, MCA?
Well, I feel right
I speak my words on the track 'cause the track sounds tight

Well, if you're feeling good and you're feeling right
Uh, somebody step up and grab the mic

Hello everybody and how you been?
It's Ad-Rock rappin' on the microphone again
I got grace, class, style, finesse, and debonair
Murdalize motherfuckers 'cause I just don't care
The Emcee Whisperer, kinda like a trainer
I take sucker rappers, I put 'em through a strainer
Like macaroni 'cause the shit sound cheesy
Watch how it's done, boy, it looks easy
Nonstop, going off, kingpin, microphone boss
Do my own thing you, can't afford the cost
Of my style, take you through a turnstile
'Cause I'm live and direct, and I'm wicked and wild
Because I'm back on a roll, got total control
I flow like the water out your toiler bowl
Your style is cheap, boy, just like a Dutch
You know you're not smokin' on the microphone much
There's a certain special talent that I never lack
Huh-ha, huh-ha, and that's a fact
'Cause we shine like the chrome on a Cadillac
You better break a wishbone 'cause we never wack
Said we're never that and that is that
And we're the nonstop disco powerpack
Uh, that's right, we go all night
Who gonna be next to bless the mic?

Now this it the way we run it down
We're gettin' you high on the funky sounds
This is the way we get it on
B-Boys in the house 'til the break of dawn

See, I mix my style up like a cement mixer
Smooth and fix ya, like a rhyme elixir
"Yo-yo, sound man, make Mike's mic louder"
Don't make me sound cheap like a box of douche powder
I max and relax, champagne mojito
Don't go commando, don't know bandito
Je m'appelle Michel Perignon
Me and Claude in the chateau, we got it going on
Quincy's in the hot tub like it's '73
Looking over his shoulder and he's looking at me
I'm all white in the face, towel around my waist
What's up with that watch inside that glass case?
I got to make my move, sneak out the place
Undetected, not leaving a trace
Party's done, microphone's wrecked
Wines been drunk and heads been checked
I see one last profiterole and make my play
And pass the microphone to MCA

Nonstop, on the top, and you clock, when we rock
Never fakin', no mistakin', we be makin' hip hop
So come on everybody, get down, yeah

Now it's a spot check, hit the deck, count down
'Cause I'ma break it down for you how we run it down
Pound for pound, keep the bass lines round
I seen you watchin', clockin', jockin' my sound
But, for real, I been glad I grew up in hip hop
Still got mad love for a record called "Beat Bop"
It meant a lot spinning on my Walkman
Shout out to the African Bam
And to the S to the P the double O-N-Y
The one MC who you can't deny
I'd listen to the records and they'd inspire
Sit down to write and the pen breathes fire
Construct a rhyme with specific intent
Flowin' from and brain cells right to my pen
And then I put the book down, grab ahold the mic
Words flowin' so cold, turn water to ice
Come through the wire, saturate the tape
You put me in the mix, nice it up with the plate
And then they press it on wax, sell it in the store
The DJ spin the record out on the dance floor
Comin' through the speaker to shake your eardrum
Brain cells get lit, then you hear where we're comin' from

Well, Ad-Rock (huh), get it on
We gonna rock the house until the break of dawn
Mike D (huh), get it on
We gonna rock the house until the break of dawn
MCA (a-yeah), get it on
We gonna rock the house until the break of dawn
Beastie Boys in the house, don't stop

Copyright: Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): Adam Horovitz, Adam Nathaniel Yauch, Michael Louis Diamond