Lyrics: Fugees. The Score. How Many Mics.

:
Intro: Wyclef Jean

Pick up your microphones
Pick up your microphones

Chorus: Wyclef/Pras

How many mics do we rip on the daily
Say, me say many money say me say many many many
How many mics do we rip on the daily
Many money say me say many many many

Verse One: Lauryn Hill

I get mad frustrated when I rhyme
Thinkin of all them kids that try to do this for
all the wrong reasons Season change mad things
rearrange But it all stays the same like the love
doctor strange
I'm tame like the rapper get red like a snapper,
when they do that Got your whole block saying
true dat
If only they knew that, it was you who was
irregular Soldier soul for some secular muzac
that's whack
Plus you use that, loop, over and over
Claiming that you got a new style, your atempts
are futile, oooh child Your puerile, brain waves
are sterile You can't create you just wait to
take, my take Laced with malice, hands get
callous, from ripping microphones From here to
Dallas go ask Alice if you don't believe me I get
innovisions like Stevie
See me, a sin from the chalice, like the weed be
Indeed we like Kalid Mohammed MC's make me vomit
I get controversial, freaky style with no
rehearsal
Au contraire mon frere, don't you even go there
Me without a mike is like a beat without a snare
I dare to tear into your ego, we go, way back
Like some ganja and palequo or ColecoVision
My minds make incisions in your anatomy
And I back this with Deuteronomy or Leviticus
God made this word, you can't get with this
Sweet like licorice, dangerous like syphillis,
yeah

Chorus

Verse Two: Wyclef Jean

I used to be underrated, now I take iron, makes
my shit constipated I'm more concentrated, so on
my day off with David Sanonburg I play golf Run
through Crown Heights screaming out "Mazeltoff!"
Problem with noman before black I'm first hu-man
Appetite to write, like Frederick Douglass with a
slave hand Street pressure, word to papa I ain't
going under One day I have a label and make deals
with Tommy Mottola Mama always told me, "Your one
in a million, Always watch our back, never tango
with haitian-sicilians" Now I got a record deal,
how does it feel? I'm never gonna survive unless
I get crazy like Seal Cause the whole worlds' out
a order So at night the feins dance on grease
with John Travolta One got slaughtered as he
caught blood from his mouth The other tried to
duck and caught a left with my Guinness stout
Brother, brother can't you get this through your
head It's a setup by the feds, their scoping us
with their infrareds

Chorus

Verse Three: Prazwell

Too many MC's not enough mikes, exit your show
like I exit the turnpike Dice and dynomite like
Dolomite, double do's been like I don't Dick Van
Dyke Starlight to starbrite the freaks come out
at night Like my man Wyclef-"I wear my sunglasses
at night" And my ponage with martial encourage
Squash the squad and hide their bodies under my
garage And when the cops come lookin, I be bookin
to Brooklyn Beat the trails broken flipping
tokens to Hoboken A clean Getaway like Alec
Baldwin Driving in my fast car playing Tracy
Chapman

Chorus
Many, many money many many many
Many, many money, ha, ha, ha