Ludacris and Shawna “What’s Your Fantasy?”

“What’s Your Fantasy?” Introduction

Ludacris:

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Give it to me now, give it to me now,

Give it to me now, give it to me now

Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

Give your best effort to me! Provide for my enjoyment your finest work!

Proffer me your greatest goods! Oblige yourself unto me!

Shawna:

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Give it to me now, give it to me now, give it to me now

Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

Lay forth your greatest gift! Indulge me with your choicest endeavor!

Relinquish your most ineffable quality upon me!

“What’s Your Fantasy?” Chorus

I wanna li-li-li-lick you from your head to your toes
And I wanna move from the bed down to the, down to the, to the flo’
Then I wanna, “ahh ahh,” you make it so good I don’t wanna leave
But I gotta kn-kn-kn-know: what-what’s your fanta-ta-sy?

I would very much enjoy t-t-t-tasting your flesh from crown to extremity!

Also, I would not mind if our lovemaking took us crashing from bedstead

—That is, from the bedstead to the—to the very floor!

After that, I would like to—“Ahh! Ahh!”

—Madam, you make romancing so pleasurable I do not wish to leave,

But I simply must kn-kn-kn—(pardon my spluttering!)—know:

Whatever is your fanta-ta-sy?

“What’s Your Fantasy?” Verse I

I wanna get you in the Georgia Dome on the fifty-yard line
While the Dirty Birds kick for t’ree
And if you like in the club we can do it in the DJ booth

Or in the back of the V.I.P.

I would like to rut you in Atlanta’s Georgia Dome stadium,

Right there upon the fifty-yard line—the middlemost point!

Where professional footballers the Atlanta Falcons often attempt field goals.

Or, if you’d prefer, we can fornicate in the nightclub of your choice,

In the disc jockey’s booth or in the Very Important Person section, in the rear.

Whipped cream with cherries and strawberries on top
Lick it, don’t stop, keep the door locked, don’t knock while the boat rock 
We Gobots and robots so they gotta wait till the show stop

May I spread whisked crème Chantilly, along with cherries and strawberries,

Upon your body, only to thereafter lick it from your physique?

Do not stop your sexy actions! We must keep our door bolted,

And tell any intruders not to attend us while we conjugate so madly!

We are Tonka-brand Gobot toys—we resemble automatons

In our repetition and endurance; an audience must wait for us to finish.

Or how ’bout on the beach with black sand?

Lick up your thigh, they call me the Pac-Man
Table top or just give me the lap dance
The Rock to the Park to the Point to the Flatlands

Or would you enjoy being copulated on a black sand beach, such as that in Maui?

I will lick you up your thigh and then perform cunnilingus upon you,

Much like chomping Namco-brand video game character Pac-Man.

Dance upon a table for me, or simply grind your loins into my own.

Let us fornicate throughout Atlanta, Georgia: From the Rock Church

To Washington Park to East Point to the coastal plain of northern Georgia.

That man, hey Ludacris! (Woo!) In the public bathroom

Or in the back of the classroom
However you want it, lover-lover, gonna tap that ass soon
See, I cast ’em and I passed ’em

Get a tight grip and I grasp ’em
I flash ’em and outlast ’em

And if it ain’t good then I trash ’em

That man, Christopher Brian “Ludacris” Bridges—myself that is (Woo!)

Will also have you in the public’s washroom or in the back of a classroom.

However you want it, my paramour, I’m going to sodomize you shortly.

Understand that I’ve abandoned women and passed them on to my compatriots.

I obtain a tight grip on my women by grasping any I like.

I bedazzle these lucky strumpets and then make love to them enduringly.

If the sex isn’t of a quality I consider adequate, I discard them.

While you stash ’em, I let ’em free 
And they tell me what they fantasy
Like up on the roof, roof,

Tell your boyfriend not to be mad at me!

While you other men jealously restrain your intimate lovelies,

I romance them to the point where they release their hidden nymphomaniacs.

In this wise, they inform me of their sexual fantasies.

Such as being manhandled upon a building’s roof—a roof, I say!
Ladies who I’ve lain with, tell your beaus not to begrudge me!

“What’s Your Fantasy?” Verse II

I wanna get you in the bathtub
With the candles lit; you give it up till they go out
Or we can do it onstage at the Ludacris concert
’Cause you know it got sold out

I would like to conjoin genitals in the bathing tub

With candles lit; intercourse me until their wicks exterminate.

Or we can fornicate onstage at one of my very own concerts,

Which of course sold out every seat!

Or red carpet, dick could just roll out
Go ’head and scream, you can’t hold out
We can do it in the pouring rain
Runnin the train when it’s hot or when it’s cold out

Or we may conjoin on the red carpet of an awards ceremony;

My penis could suddenly be released of its vestments!

Feel free to shriek your rapture—I know you won’t be able to sustain yourself!

We can even pleasure ourselves in a downpour.

Several of my colleagues and I will intercourse you 
Despite the external temperature!

How ’bout up in the library on top of books?
But you can’t be too loud
You wanna make a brother beg for it
Give me TLC ’cause you know I be too proud

Another location to consider: In the library, on top of volumes of literature;

However, because of the fact we’re in a library, you must remain quiet.

You wish to make an African-American male beg for your sexual privileges;

Please just bestow upon me tender loving care,

Because you know I am too proud to beg!

We can do it in the White House
Try’n-a make them turn the lights out 
Champagne with my campaign,

Let me do the damn thing
What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s my name?

We can philander even in the White House—home of the President!

I’ve been asking the nearest guard whether they may lower the lights.

My presidential campaign would feature champagne for those who voted for me.

Excuse me, security personnel, just let my lady and I couple here!

What is my name? What is my name? What is my name?

The sauna, Jacuzzi, in the back row at the movies
You can scratch my back and rule me
You can push me and just pull me
On hay in the middle of the barn (woo)

Or rose pedals on the silk sheets
Eating fresh fruits, sweep your woman right off of her feet

We can also breed in a sauna, a Jacuzzi-brand whirlpool spa,

Or in the back row at the local theatre.

I will allow you to scratch my back and govern me.

You may push or pull me in your revelry.

We may even do it in a barn, on a haybale,

Or upon a luxurious bedstead, with rose pedals spread across silk sheets.

We can enjoy fresh fruits during our act

—Sir, your woman will swoon from pleasure!

“What’s Your Fantasy?” Verse III

I wanna get you in the backseat, windows up
That’s the way you like to fuck, clogged up, fog alert
Rip the pants and rip the shirt, rough sex, make it hurt

I would like to take you in the backseat of my automobile.

We can keep the windows up, for that’s the way we like to intercourse!

The windows become clogged with the heat condensation of our lust making.

You may tear my shirt or trousers;

We shall have violent intercourse, the kind that causes physical distress.

In the garden all in the dirt

Roll around Georgia Brown, that’s the way I like it, twerk
Legs jerk, overworked, underpaid, but don’t be afraid
In the sun or up in the shade, on the top of my Escalade

In the garden, in the very dirt—we can roll around in Georgia’s dirt!
That’s the way I enjoy fornicating. Now gyrate your hinder.

Your legs quiver from being overworked by my pounding loins.

You may be “underpaid” (from being so thoroughly worked over),

But have no fear! In sun or shade,

Or on the roof of my Cadillac-brand Escalade sport utility vehicle.

Maybe your girl and my friend can trade; tag team, off the ropes!
On the ocean or in the boat! Factories or one hundred spokes!

May your cohort and mine trade sexual partners?

We shall perform a “tag team” maneuver, as seen in professional wrestling

—To further the metaphor, let us jounce off the ropes!

We can do it on the ocean or in the boat! Literally, anywhere!

We can do it in a fancy automobile with 100-spoke wire rims,

Or in a lesser automobile with factory-standard hubcaps.

What about up in the candy store, that chocolate, chocolate, make it melt
Whips and chains, handcuffs, smack a little booty up with my belt

Would you like to feel me penetrate you in the confectioner’s store,

The chocolate—chocolate, I say!—will melt under the heat of our writhings.

Or if you enjoy sadomasochism, the intercourse of whips, chain, and handcuffs,

I shall comply, and welt your backside with my leather belt.

Scream “help!”, play my game; Dracula man, I’ll get my fangs
Horseback and I’ll get my reins; school teacher, let me get my brains

In this scenario, I want you to feign a scream for help—

Play my game, submissive wench!

Or I could play the part of Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula vampire,

And use my teeth as the famous seductive biter.

Or I may have you on horseback—let me find my reins!

Finally, you could pretend my school teacher and fellate me!

OutKast “Rosa Parks”

“Rosa Parks” Chorus

Uh-huh, hush that fuss
Everybody move to the back of the bus
Do you wanna bump and slump with us?
We the type of people make the club get crunk

Yes sir! Hush that fuss!

Everyone, please move yourself to the rear of the vehicle—

Metaphorically, let my partner and I lead the way, as we are the most capable

(Also, move backward as if in ironic response to

The Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955—begun by this song’s titular madam!).

Would you like to carouse and cavort with us?

We are the type of people who make nightclubs grow frenzied upon our arrival!

“Rosa Parks” Verse I

(Antwan André “Big Boi” Patton)

Many a day has passed, the night has gone by
But still I find the time to put that bump off in your eye
Total chaos, for these playas, thought we was absent
We takin another route to represent the Dungeon Family

Many a day has passed, and now, this evening has ended,

But still I find the time to trounce you with my wordplay!

It’s absolute chaos for these opponents who thought my partner and I were absent.

We are instead appearing as if from thin air,

Representing our Atlanta-based musical collective the Dungeon Family.

Like Great Day, me and my nigga decide to take the back way
We stabbing every city then we headed to that bat cave
A-T-L, Georgia, what do we do for ya?
Bulldoggin hoes like them Georgetown Hoyas

My crew compares to Arthur “Art Kane” Kanofsky’s 1958 photograph

A Great Day in Harlem, featuring 127 jazz greats.

My partner and I decide to arrive via circuitous means.

We will dominate emcees from any city in the continental United States,

And then escape back into the safety of our cavelike domiciles.

We are from Atlanta, Georgia. What might be able to do for you today?

We are simultaneously taking whores’ virtues,

As if the whores in question were English bulldogs

Like the mascot of the Georgetown University “Hoyas.”

Boy, you sounding silly, think my Brougham ain’t sittin pretty
Doing doughnuts ’round you suckas like them circles around titties
Damn, we the committee, gon’ burn it down
But us gon’ bust you in the mouth with the chorus now

Son, you are mentally addled to think 
My Cadillac Brougham automobile is not shining luxuriously!

I am driving in circles around you gulls—circles resembling areolas!

Damnation! We are as the committee, and what we say is “law!”

We are going to set this place alight!

Finally, we will clobber you in the jaw with the chorus now:

“Rosa Parks” Verse II

(André Lauren “André 3000” Benjamin)

I met a gypsy and she hipped me to some life game
To stimulate then activate the left and right brain
Said, “Baby boy, you’re only funky as your last cut
You focus on the past, your ass’ll be a has-what.”

I made the acquaintance of a Caucasoid nomad,

Who informed me about this game we call Life.

She informed both my rational and intuitive capacities.

Why, this bohemian told me, “Infant lad, you are only as novel as your last song.

If you concentrate only on your past, then your fame will be forgotten!”

That’s one to live by, or either that’s one to die to
I try to just throw it at you, determine your own adventure
André got to her station, here’s my destination
She got off the bus, the conversation lingered in my head for hours

That is advice to live by—heed it not and suffer the end of your career!

I give you the best of my talents, lady; you may respond however you see fit.

I arrived at her bus stop—how I wish it were mine!

She departed the bus, leaving me to ponder our conversation.

Took a shower, kinda sour ’cause my favorite group ain’t comin with it
But I’m witchya ’cause you probably goin’ through it anyway
But anyhow, when in doubt, went on out and bought it
’Cause I thought it would be jammin’

I bathed, masturbating my thoughts to their physical conclusion.

I was feeling sour because my most-adored coterie was producing sub-par music.

However, I remain loyal to them as they’re likely suffering through trying times.

In any case, since I wasn’t aware of their new album’s level of quality,

I purchased it, for I thought it would be dulcet.

But examine all the flawsky, wawsky
Awfully, sad and it’s costly, but that’s all she wrote
And I hope I never have to float in that boat
Up Shit’s Creek, it’s weak as the last quote

But all I hear when I listen are the group’s many shortcomings.

It’s terribly sad and also costly, for they’ve lost my fandom,

And I don’t care to discuss it further.

I just hope I never have to join that group on their “sinking ship”!

They will be in dire straits—their music as insubstantial as any final farewell...

That I want to hear when I’m goin’ down, when all’s said and done
And we got a new Joe in town
When the record player get to skippin and slowin down
All y’all can say is them niggas earned them crown but until then

…I hear as I shuffle off this mortal coil and “drown”!

When everything has been said and done, and we have a new mayor in our town,

When the record player begins repeating itself and slowing down—

When all of this transpires, the only thing you all are left to say

Is that those African-American males (my partner and I)

Earned our status as the “kings” of hip hop! Until then, however…

DMX “Party Up”

“Party Up” Chorus

Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind
Up in here, up in here
Y’all gon’ make me go all out
Up in here, up in here

All of you are going to make me as crazy as a Betsy Bug!

In this location, in this location.

You all are going to make me act wild as a peach-orchard boar!

In this very spot, in this very spot.

Y’all gon’ make me act a fool
Up in here, up in here
Y’all gon’ make me lose my cool
Up in here, up in here

All of you are going to force to act as a court’s very jester.

In this place, in this place.

You all are going to make me upset my composure!

Right in here, right in here.

“Party Up” Verse I

If I gotsa bring it to you cowards then it’s gonna be quick, aight?
All your mens up in the jail before, suck my dick
And all them other cats you run with get done with dumb quick
How the fuck you gonna cross The Dog with some bum shit? Aight

If I must do battle with your cowards, then I shall do so succinctly, understand?

To all your colleagues who were imprisoned alongside me,

You may fellate me!

And all of your other compatriots you carouse with

Will be dispatched with in ridiculously short order!

However do you propose to cross the highest order of canine—myself—

And to do so with actions befitting a common derelict?

There go the gun click, nine-one-one shit
All over some dumb shit. Ain’t that some shit?
Y’all niggas remind me of a strip club, ’cause every time
You come around, it’s like, what? I just gotta get my dick sucked

Oop! There resounds the sound of my handgun’s hammer clicking into place,

Which will result in a paramedic wheeling you away.

All of you African-American males belong to be

Stripteasing in an adult entertainment venue,

For every time you visit my neighborhood, I feel (“What?”) suddenly randy,

As if I must then receive fellatio!

—Such is the extent of your emasculation!

And I don’t know who the fuck you think you talkin to
But I’m not him, aight, slim? So watch what you do
Or you gon’ find yourself buried next to someone else

And we all thought you loved yourself

But whoever it is, I am not him. Do you understand, you emaciated man?

So please, consider carefully your actions, or you are

Going to find yourself buried illegally in a previously established gravesite.

And perhaps your family all thought you had an exemplary self-image,

Which makes it doubly perplexing as to why you’d war with me.

But that couldn’t have been the issue, or maybe
They just sayin that now ’cause they miss you
Shit, a nigga tried to dis you
That’s why you layin on your back, lookin at the roof of the church
Preacher tellin the truth and it hurts

—But perhaps they’re simply highlighting your best qualities

Because you have passed to the next life.

But tarnation, an African-American male attempted to reproach you,

Which is why you’re now on your back,

Your dead eyes cast upward to the ceiling of your house of worship.

The preacher at your open-casket funeral is telling the truth

—That you acted rashly and foolishly to fight with such a champion as I—

And that truth is painful for its accuracy.