Sunday, July 17, 2011

Li’l Kim with Sisqo “How Many Licks”

“How Many Licks” Verse I

I’ve been a lot of places, seen a lot of faces
Ah hell, I even fuck with different races
A white dude, his name was John
He had a “Queen Bee Rules” tattoo on his arm
He asked me if I’d be his date for the prom
And he’d buy me a horse, a Porsche, and a farm
I have traveled to many lands, where I have seen numerous countenances.
Oh, Hades, I have even resorted to copulating with different races.
For example!
There was a Caucasian male, who went by the name of “Jonathan.”
He had a “Queen Bee Rules” tattoo on his arm
—Which I duly appreciated, being the Queen Bee in question!
He asked me whether I would like to be his steady
For his high school’s formal promenade.
He claimed he would buy me a horse,
A Porsche Automobil Holding SE–brand automobile, and a farm.
Dan my nigga, from Down South
Used to like me to spank him and come in his mouth
And Tony, he was Italian (uh-huh)
And he didn’t give a fuck
That’s what I liked about him (uh-huh)
He ate my pussy from dark till the mornin
Called his girl up and told her we was bonin
And then there was Daniel,
My African-American male friend from the Southeastern United States.
He liked me to give him a bottom slapping, then ejaculate into his mouth.
And how could I forget Antonio? He was Italian (of course).
He did not care one iota about anything,
Which is precisely what I enjoyed most about him (of course).
He gave me cunnilingus from dusk till dawn.
He would even telephone his sweetheart to let her know we were intercoursing.
Puerto Rican papi, used to be a deacon
But now he be sucking me off on the weekend

And this black dude I called King Hung
He had a big-ass dick and a hurricane tongue
After Antonio was an anonymous Puerto Rican father, who was once a deacon.
But now he had given up the clergy to be able to suckle my vagina on weekends.
Finally, there was this African-American male I named “King Hung.”
He had an oversized phallus and a very nimble tongue.

“How Many Licks” Chorus (Sisqo)

So how many licks does it take till you get to the center of the…?
(’Cause I’ve got to know)
How many licks does it take till you get to the center of the…?
(Tell me)
How many licks does it take till you get to the center of the…?
(Oh, oh)
How many licks does it take till you get to the center of the…?
(Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh)
So then, what is the quantity of licks needed to get to the center of the [nothing]?
(Because I have to know!)
Precisely how many of these licks are required to gain the center of the [nothing]?
(Tell me now!)
I repeat, how many licks are required to get to the center of the [nothing]?
(Oh! Oh!)
Again I ask, how many licks must one lick 
Before getting to the center of the [nothing]?
(Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!)

“How Many Licks” Verse II

This verse goes out to my niggas in jail
Beatin they dicks to the XXL, magazine
You like how I look in the aqua green? Get your Vaseline
Roll some weed with some tissue and close your eyes
Then imagine your tongue in between my thighs
[moan] Baby, ohh…yes ohh!
Jailer, open up, cell block eight
This second verse is dedicated to my imprisoned African-American males,
Who are masturbating to Harris Publications’ XXL hip-hop magazine cover image
Of myself nude in a bubbly bath with aqua-green–colored hair.
Do you enjoy that image, you criminals?
If so, masturbate with the assistance of Unilever’s Vaseline-brand petroleum jelly.
Use the tissue paper found in your jailcell to roll a marijuana cigarette,
Then close your eyes and imagine your tongue in between my thighs 
(Upon my labia).
[moan] Babe, ohh! Yes! Ohh!
Jailer, please open up cell block eight!
[satisfactory sounds]
Alright, nigga, that’s enough
Stop, look and listen; get back to your position
Kim got your dick hard, startin fights in the yard
Hotter than a Pop-Tart fresh out of the toaster
Niggas do anything for a Lil’ Kim poster
Esés, Bloods, Crips, all the thugs
Up north in the hole, they all wanna know
All right, African-American male, that will be quite enough!
Stop, look, and listen; get back into your position.
Little Kim—myself—has made your penis erect
To the point that you are starting skirmishes in the jailyard.
I am hotter than a Kellogg Company Pop-Tarts–brand toaster pastry
Freshly emerging from a toaster oven.
African-American males will do anything just to obtain a Little Kim poster.
Latin Sureño gangsters, as well as rival Bloods and Crips gangsters,
And to those up north in solitary confinement
—All of these bejailed men wish to know…

“How Many Licks” Verse III

If you drivin in the street, hold on to your seat
Niggas, grab your meat while I ride the beat
And if you see a shiny black Lamborghini fly by ya
(Shoom!) That’s me, the Knight Rider
If you happen to be driving in the street, hold on to your seat for security.
African-American males, take hold of your penis while I rap this verse.
And if you perchance see a shiny black
Italian Automobili Lamborghini S.p.A.–brand automobile hasten by you.
—Shoom!—that will be me, the very rider of the night,
Much like David Hasselhoff’s character in the eponymous 1980s television series!
Dressed in all black with the gat in the lap
Lunatics in the street–gotta keep the heat
Sixty on the bezel, a hundred on the rings
Sittin pretty, baby, with a Cash Money bling
I’ll be dressed in all-black clothing, with a handgun in my lap.
There are very lunatics in the streets, so I must protect myself with firearms.
I have sixty-carat diamonds in the gemstone bands of my rings
As well as hundred-carat diamonds in the rings themselves.
Yes, you could say that I am sitting pretty, babe,
With a Cash Money Records–style bling.
12 a.m. I’m on the way to club
After three bottles I’ll be ready to fuck
Some niggas even put me on their grocery lists
Right next to the whip cream and box of chocolates
At midnight I set off for the nightclub.
After three bottles of liquor of any variety I shall be ready to copulate.
Some African-American males will even put me on their grocery lists!
Right next to the whipped cream and box of chocolates.
Designer pussy, my shit come in flavors
High-class taste, niggas got to spend paper
Lick it right the first time or you gotta do it over
Like it’s rehearsal for a Tootsie commercial
My vagina is so luxurious as to be designer-quality; it has multiple flavors.
But it is an expensive dish!
African-American males must spend money to learn of its delights.
You must lick it correctly the first time or you must try again,
As if it’s a dress rehearsal for a Tootsie Roll–brand-confection commercial.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Master P with Fiend, Silkk the Shocker, Mia X, and Mystikal “Make Em Say Uhh!”

“Make Em Say Uhh!” Chorus

Make ’em say unnnnghhhh! (Unnnnghhhh!)  
Na-na na-na (na-na na-na)
Make them say unnnnghhhh! (Unnnnghhhh!)

“Make Em Say Uhh!” Verse I: Master P

Nigga, I’m the colonel of the motherfuckin tank
Y’all after big thangs, we after big bank
Third Ward hustlas, soldiers in combats
We convicts and dealers, and killers with TRU tats
African-American male, I am the colonel
Operating this mother-loving armored fighting vehicle
You all are after exorbitant luxuries; we are interested only in fiscal accumulation.
You see, we are go-getters from the third of New Orleans’ seventeen wards;
We fight as soldiers in Army-issued combat fatigues.
We are convicted criminals, narcotics dealers, and murderers,
And we all have hip-hop group “The Real Untouchables” tattoos on our bodies.
Never gave a fuck bout no hoes on our riches
And niggas come short, I’m diggin ditches
M.P. pullin stripes, commander-in-chief
And fools run up wrong, nigga, I’m knockin out some teeth
I never cared about greedy strumpets after my riches,
Though if African-American males cannot pay their debts to me
I will kill them and organize their funeral services.
I, Percy Robert “Master P” Miller, have many military awards;
I am the commander-in-chief!
And if foolish young men approach me with disrespect, African-American male,
I will punch them with enough force to loosen their teeth!
I’m down here slangin, rollin with these hustlers
Tryin to get rid of all you haters and you bustas
Steppin on toes, break a nigga’s nose
In the projects, nigga, anything goes
I am down here proffering narcotics, riding in automobiles with other salesmen.
I am trying to rid myself of all of you naysayers and poseurs.
I am stepping on toes—figuratively and literally!—and in this vein,
I will also not hesitate to break an African-American male’s nose.
In the public housing projects, African-American male,
There exists no law of man.
Breakin fools off ’cause I’m a No Limit soldier
At ease, now. Salute this! Pass me the doja
I am murdering birdbrains because I represent No Limit Records.
At ease now, men. Salute this song and offer me the marijuana cigarette.

“Make Em Say Uhh!” Verse II: Fiend

Fiend exercisin his right/rite of exorcism, bustin out the Expedition
Bullets choppin haters’ business to about the size of prisms, our mission
They heard we scary, No Limit mercenary
No tellin how bad it get, because the worst’ll vary
Myself, Ricky “Fiend” Jones,
Is exercising my Second Amendment right to bear arms,
While also performing the Roman Catholic practice of exorcising demons!
We are hurriedly disembarking our
Ford Motor Company’s Expedition-brand full-sized sport utility vehicle.
Bullets fired from my firearms are tearing holes in naysayers,
Until the naysayers are disintegrated into piles of gore!—Which is our very mission!
Those naysayers previously heard tell that we are frightening.
I am a particularly militaristic member of No Limit Records.
There is no telling what damage we may incur,
Because the worst of our wrath will vary naysayer by naysayer.
I heard you make ’em worry, that this for the loot
They intimidated by the rounds that a tank shoot
Tank Dogs salute! Every robbery in store, ’cause they know
Everything Fiend know, mean mo’ money, mo’
I have heard rumors that you, my nemesis, are threatening in your own right,
Or that all our loggerheads merely concern remuneration.
They are intimidated by the rounds that a tank shoots.
(A tank being the emblem of No Limit Records –ed.)
No Limit friends and family—“Tank Dogs”—let us salute ourselves!
Every robbery is forthcoming, because the general public knows
That everything I, “Fiend,” know, revolves around increasing my coffers.
Little Fiend still want the greens, the cornbread and the cabbage
In your hood, remindin you bitches of who the baddest
Definitely the maddest, so the crime gon’ stick ’em up
My ungh went twice (ungh, ungh)
And ended with nine, get ’em
Oh, little old me! I still want money, money, money
—Not to mention delicious Southern Cuisine staples!
I am in your neighborhood, reminding you petticoats that I am the absolute worst.
Also, I am without a doubt the most insane,
So the crime is going to be a game of “Stick Them Up.”
I said ungh! not once but twice: Ungh! Ungh!
And I finished my grunting with a report from my nine millimeter handgun.
Get them!

“Make Em Say Uhh!” Verse III: Silkk the Shocker

P gon’ make ya say unnnnghhhh, I’m-a make you say aaaahh!
I’m not Eric B. but guaranteed to move this motherfuckin crowd
I stay on like light switches, money, ’cause I like riches
Hittin nothin but tight bitches, call me, I might hit ya
My friend Master P is certainly going to force you to say unnnnghhhh;
However, I am going to force you to say ouch!
I am not hip-hop artist Eric “B.” Barrier, but I do guarantee that I shall
Move this mother-intercoursing crowd, much like the 1988 hit
“Move the Crowd by Eric B. and William Michael “Rakim” Griffin, Junior.
I remain in the “on” position like electric light switches.
I also like to earn more funds, because, simply, I like earning funds.
I only intercourse women with snug vaginas—women,
Telephone me and I may rut with you as well.
Nigga, make ’em say nah-nah-nah, don’t trip
After I bust yo’ shit, then after that say, na-nah-nah-nah
I hang with niggas, I do my thang with niggas
They wanna know if I gangbang, ’cause I hang with a whole gang of niggas
African-American male, make them say, “Nah, nah, nah.” Do not behave doltishly.
After I injure you, I will exclaim, “Na, nah nah nah.”
I carouse with African-American men, I do what I wish with African-American men.
They wish to know if I belong to a criminal syndicate,
Because I associate with a large group of African-American men.
So when we connect, bitch, better respect this, I step quick
’Cause I got a vicious right hand but ya know what? My left is quick too!
“Silkk, you the type of nigga that promotes violence.” You might be right
’Cause I’ll step in the club and say somethin
To get that motherfucker start to fightin! (’Bout it!)
So when we meet, weakling, please respect the fact that I have a short temper.
Because I have a powerful right hand, but do you know what?
My left hand is swift as well!
You say to me: “Vyshonn King ‘Silkk’ Miller,
You are the type of African-American male who promotes violence.”
And perhaps you are correct, because I will enter a nightclub
And say something rude just to incite others to fisticuffs. (I support it!)
Bad as Vogues, I’m cold, extra see-through
And P-D’s the game I spit, No Limit Soldiers got my back
I run this motherfucker, TRU niggas
And I betcha I’ll make you say, “Bet!”
I’m as desirable as Vogue Tyre & Rubber Company-brand rims.
I’m coldhearted, and also transparent.
And being a pimp father is my form of verbal gregariousness.
My friends at No Limit Records will protect me.
I am in charge of this mother-intercourser.
The Real Untouchable African-Americans!
And I wager that I will force you to say, “Wager!”