Chamillionaire with Krayzie Bone “Ridin’”

“Ridin’” Chorus

They see me rollin
They hatin
Patrollin and tryin to catch me ridin dirty
Tryin to catch me ridin dirty (4x)

The policemen and other interlopers witness me driving my automobile.

They are despising my existence!

They are patrolling in an attempt to catch me riding with illegal substances, 
Et cetera!

My music so loud
I’m swangin
They hopin that they gon’ catch me ridin dirty
Tryin to catch me ridin dirty (4x)

I play my music at a deafening volume.

I’m steering dangerously to the left and right in my automobile!

The law enforcement officers are hoping to catch me riding illegally, and so on!

“Ridin’” Verse I

Grindin to see if they can see me lean
I’m tint so it ain’t easy to be seen
Police see me ride by, they can see these gleam
And my shine on the deck and the TV screen

I’m flaunting my wealth in my customized automobile

(And looking to purchase some narcotics 
While my curb finders scrape against nearby curbs),

To see if the policemen can see me up to such theatrics.

I’ve had my windows tinted so I’m difficult to see as I drive about.

When policemen watch me drive by, they’re able to see

My radiant wheel rims, jewelry, and metal tooth decorations.

My automobile shimmers, as does the television screen within my steering wheel.

Ridin with a new chick, she like, “¡Hola!”
Next to the Playstation controller is a full clip in my pistola
Send a jacker into a coma
Girl, you ain’t know, I’m crazy like Krayzie Bone
Just tryin to bone, ain’t tryin to have no babies
Ride clean as hell so I pull in ladies
Law’s on patrol and you know they hate me

I’m on this outing with a fresh dame who says, “¡Hola!”

Next to my Sony Playstation-brand game controller 
Is a pistol clip fully loaded with ammunition,

Which I may use to send a thief into a state of prolonged unconsciousness.

Damsel, you aren’t aware of what I’m capable.

I’m mentally unstable like my cohort Anthony “Krayzie Bone” Henderson!

I’m merely attempting to intercourse you , though I do not wish to impregnate you.

My automobile is free of illegal elements, so I attract females of my peerage.

The law is actively on patrol and I’m certain you’re aware of how they despise me.

Music turned all the way up until the maximum
I got speakers, some niggas tryin to jack for some
But we packin somethin and what we have for ’em

Will have a nigga locked up in the maximum
Security cell, I’m grippin oak
Music loud and I’m tippin slow
Twins steady, twistin like, “Hit this dough”
Police pull up right behind and it’s in his throat

My music is turned up all the way to the maximum volume.

I have formidable electroacoustic transducers,

Which many African-American males have been attempting to pilfer from me.

However, my familiars and I have weapons to use on them

That, if used, would certify our place in a maximum-security prison cell!

I have a wood-grain grip on my steering wheel.

My music is, again, very loud, and I’m lowering my car to one side via hydraulics.

My 22-inch rims are rolling steadily. I’m driving as if to say “Notice my affluence!”

A policeman pulls up right behind me, his Adam’s apple bobbing in fear!

My window’s down, gotta stop pollution
CDs change, niggas like, “Who is that producing?”
This the Play-N-Skillz when we out and cruisin
Got warrants in every city except Houston

But I still ain’t losin

My autocar’s window is rolled down so as to stop noise pollution.

I change the compact disc I’m listening to, and African-American men 

Ask, “Who is producing that music?”

Why, it’s Irving, Texas, hip-hop record production duo Play-N-Skillz, of course,

(The duo who produced this very track!)

Which my friends and I often listen to when we’re out for a drive.

I have warrants out for my arrest in every city except for Houston,

But I remain undefeated!

“Ridin’” Verse II

I been drinkin and smokin, holy shit! ’Cause I really can’t focus
I gotta get it home ’fore the po pos scope this

Big old Excursion swerving all up in the curb and

I have been imbibing alcohol and smoking marijuana cigarettes!

Goodness gracious! I sincerely cannot concentrate my vision.

I must take my illegal substances and myself home before the policemen

See my large, aged Ford Motor Company Excursion-brand sport utility vehicle

Swerving up and onto the curb.

Nigga be sippin on the Hennessey and the gin again

It’s in again, we in the wind

Doin a hundred while I puff on the blunt

I roll another one up, we livin like we ain’t givin a fuck

I, an African-American male, 
Am sipping on Jas Hennessey & Co.–brand cognac and gin.

These liqueurs are popular again. My mates and I are on the lam.

I’m driving one hundred miles an hour while I inhale from the marijuana cigar.

After which I roll another marijuana cigar

—My comrades and I are living without a care in the world!

I got a blunt up in my right hand, 40-ounce in my lap freezing my balls
Roll another tree, green leaves and all
Comin pretty deep, me and my dogs, yo

To reiterate: I have a marijuana cigar in my right hand,

Along with a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor that’s benumbing my testicles.

I construct yet another marijuana cigar,
Including the subtending leaves of the plant.

My “canine” friends and I
Experience potent psychoactive reactions to the intoxicants, sir.

I gotta hit the backstreets
Wanted by the six-five and I got heat

Glock Glock, shots to the block we creep creep
Pop pop, hope cops don’t see me, on the low key

I must travel to the hidden, likely crime-ridden districts of my city.

I’m wanted by a 1965 Chevrolet Impala for some reason,
And I currently have a weapon on me,

Namely a Glock Ges.m.b.H.-brand semiautomatic pistol.

I fire this pistol in my neighborhood as I drive slowly by.

“Pop! Pop!” goes my pistol. Heavens, I hope the peace officers don’t see me now!

I remain inconspicuous as I lurch about.

With no regard for the law, we dodge ’em like, “Fuck ’em all”
But I won’t get caught up and brought up on charges for none of y’all
Keep a gun in car, and a blunt to spark,

Roll up if you want, nigga, it poppin, dog
Ready or not we bust shots off in the air,

Krayzie Bone and Chamillionaire

With my lack of regard for the law, I dodge patrolmen as if to say,
“A pox on the lot of you!”

However, I refuse to become apprehended nor considered for criminal charges

For all of your worst intentions!

I keep a handgun in my automobile, and a marijuana cigar to ignite.

You may join me in my capers, fellow African-American male.

My party is rollicking, canine sir.

Whether you are prepared or not, 
We are going to fire our handguns into the firmament.

We, the rappers of this song, are myself, Krayzie Bone, 
And Hakeem “Chamillionaire” Seriki.

“Ridin’” Verse III

Know what you thinkin, so I try to let you go
Turn on my blinker light and then I swang it slow
And they upset fo’ sho ’cause they think they know

That they catchin me with plenty of the drank and dro (No)

I know that you are thinking of pulling me over, law enforcement officer,

So I attempt to elude you by turning on my vehicle’s signaling device

And then drive much more slowly.

The policemen are certainly upset because they believe they know

That they are catching me with codeine and hydroponically-grown marijuana. (False!)

So they get behind me, tryin to check my tags,

Look in my rearview and they smilin
Thinkin they’ll catch me in the wrong—yeah, keep tryin
Steady denyin that it’s racial profiling
Houston, Texas, you can check my tags
Pull me over, try to check my slab
Glove compartment, gotta get my cash
’Cause the crooked cops’ll try to come up fast

They drive their automobiles directly behind me,

Attempting to verify my vehicle’s registration.

I look in my rearview mirror and I see them smiling.

They think they shall catch me in violation of the law—attempt on, constables!

(They continually deny that they are racially profiling me.)

My tags are registered correctly to the city of my residence: Houston, Texas.

Feel free to examine them! Direct my automobile out of the line of traffic!

Investigate my “slow, loud, and banging” automobile
In all its customized adornment!

In the glove compartment I keep a bundle of dollar bills

To pay my bail if particularly unscrupulous policemen,

Who attempt to swiftly catch me, arrest me on spurious charges.

And being a baller that I am I talk to them,

Giving a damn ’bout ’em not feeling my attitude
When they realize I ain’t even ridin dirty

Bet you’ll be leavin with an even madder mood

And being the profligate spender who I am, I talk to such policemen.

I do not give a damn about them not appreciating my petulance.

How I gloat when they realize 
I’m not even riding with illegal substances in my possession!

Tut-tut, mister policeman! 
You’ll leave angrier than you arrived after chatting with me!

I’m-a laugh at you and then I have to cruise

Yeah, my number two on some more DJ Screw
You can’t arrest me plus you can’t sue
This a message to the laws: Tell ’em, “We hate you”

I shall laugh at you, officer of the law, and then I must be off again.

My lyrics (referred to here as my fecal matter)

Adorn music mixer Robert Earl “DJ Screw” Davis, Jr.’s mixed tapes.

You cannot legally arrest me, nor can you file a lawsuit against me.

I have a message to policemen, collectively:

Tell those bluecoats we loathe their very lives!

I can’t be touched, tell ’em that they shoulda known
Tippin’ down, I’m sittin’ crooked on my chrome
Bookin my phone, findin a chick I wanna bone

Like they couldn’t stop me, I’m-a ’bout to pull up at your home

And it’s on

I am untouchable by the hand of the law

—Also, tell the policemen they should have known my status as untouchable.

I’m allowing my 30-spoked fifth wheel to dangle, 
While I sit lopsided due to my vehicle’s hydraulics.

I’m looking through the contact list on my cellular phone,

Attempting to locate a real tomato I want to penetrate vaginally.

As if anyone could halt me in such a venture!

Now I’m about to arrive at your residence 
Where the penetration will shortly get underway!

Kanye West with Jamie Foxx “Gold Digger”

“Gold Digger” Intro & Chorus

She take my money when I’m in need

Yeah, she’s a trifling friend indeed
Oh, she’s a gold digger way over town
That digs on me

She lays hold of my capital when it is I who needs said capital the most!

Yes, she is a coquettish damsel indeed!

Oh, she is an avaricious bloodsucker, she is, all across this very burg!

And my friends, she sucks from me.

(She give me money)
Now I ain’t saying she a gold digger (When I’m in need)
But she ain’t messing with no broke niggas (repeat)

(She bestows funds upon me)

However, I’m not stating that she’s an exploiter, (When I am in arrears)

But she is not having anything to do 
With any beggardly African-American men.

Get down, girl, go ’head, get down (I gotta leave)
Get down, girl, go ’head, get down (I gotta leave)

Get down, girl, go ’head, get down (I gotta leave)

Get down, girl, go ’head

Do what you will, woman—proceed! Do what you feel you must! (I must leave) 
(repeat as warranted)

“Gold Digger” Verse I

Cutie the bomb, met her at a beauty salon
With a baby Louis Vuitton under her underarm
She said, “I can tell you rock/Roc, I can tell by your charm,
Far as girls, you got a flock, I can tell by your charm on your arm.”

My popsy is the greatest. I made her acquaintance at a beauty salon.

She was carrying a French fashion house Louis Vuitton Malletier–brand 
Baby satchel under her arm.

She said to me, “It’s self-evident that you are remarkable

(And that you represent Roc-A-Fella Records label!).

I came to such a conclusion by dint of your obvious charm.

As far as lasses go, you must have a veritable flock of them!

I surmised all this from your expensive wristwatch on your arm.”

But I’m looking for the one—have you seen her?
My psychic told me she’ll have a ass like Serena
Trina, Jennifer Lopez, four kids
And I gotta take all they bad ass to showbiz?

But far from being some wayward Lothario, I’m searching for my soul’s mate.

Perhaps you have witnessed her?

My medium told me that when I meet her, she will have a derrière

Much like that of African-American professional tennis player 
Serena Jameka Williams,

Self-proclaimed “baddest bitch” female emcee Katrina Laverne “Trina” Taylor,

Or actress, musician, and Latina icon Jennifer Lynn Lopez.

My medium told me my best lady will have already birthed four children,

And now I ponder: Do I have to use my substantial monies 
To pay for these chickabiddies?

Okay, get your kids, but then they got their friends
I pulled up in the Benz, they all got up in
We all went to Den and then I had to pay
If you fucking with this girl then you better be paid

Fair enough: Your children are acceptable—
But then the children’s friends appeared!

I pulled up in my German-made Mercedes-Benz autocar,

And all of these moppets hopped aboard!

I drove the lot of us to a Denny’s-brand restaurant and 
—How surprising—I was the one to tender the bill.

Conclusion: If you seek to court this woman, you’d best be rich as Croesus!

You know why? Take too much to touch her
From what I heard she got a baby by Busta
My best friend say she used to fuck with Usher
I don’t care what none of y’all say, I still love her

Do you understand why she is this way? It’s a Sisyphean effort to simply finger her!

From what I’ve heard, she was impregnated by

American emcee and actor Trevor Taheim “Busta Rhymes” Smith, Jr.

My closest associate told me she used to dally with

Rhythm and blues singer Usher Raymond IV.

However, I care not a whit what any of you naysayers declare, for I still love her.

“Gold Digger” Verse II

18 years, 18 years,

She got one of your kids, got you for 18 years

I know somebody paying child support for one of his kids
His baby momma car and crib is bigger than his

Eighteen years—eighteen years;

If she gives birth to one of your children,

She has you snared in child support for eighteen years!

I know a fellow who’s paying child support for one of his offspring;

His baby’s mother automobile and residence is larger than his own!

You will see him on TV, any given Sunday
Win the Super Bowl and drive off in a Hyundai
She was supposed to buy your shorty Tyco with your money
She went to the doctor, got lipo with your money

You can view this friend on the television, on any given Sunday.

He will win the National Football League’s Championship game the Super Bowl,

Only to drive home in an ignoble 
South Korean Hyundai Motor Company automobile.

The woman in question was supposed to buy your child

Tyco Toys-brand playthings with the money you gave her.

Instead, she went to a plastic surgeon

And had her localized fat deposits surgically removed—with your money!

She walking round looking like Michael with your money
Should’ve got that insured, GEICO for your money
If you ain’t no punk, holla “We want pre-nup!”
“We want pre-nup!” Yeah

She is walking around looking inhuman from excessive plastic surgery,

Much like recording artist Michael Joseph Jackson—Again, being funded by you.

You should have insured your money, perhaps with

Government Employees Insurance Company–brand auto insurance.

If you all aren’t mere toughies, you should whoop, 
“We would like prenuptial agreements!” 
“We would like prenuptial agreements!” Yes!

It’s something that you need to have
’Cause when she leave your ass, she gon’ leave with half
18 years, 18 years
And on the 18th birthday he found out it wasn’t his?

A prenuptial agreement is something that you need to have,

Because when your beloved abandons you, 
She will receive half as per the divorce agreement.

Eighteen years, eighteen years,

And on the eighteenth birthday, he found out the child wasn’t even born of his loins?

“Gold Digger” Verse III

Now I ain’t saying you a gold digger, you got needs
You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed
You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave
There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves

Now don’t misunderstand me—I’m not calling you a parasite.
You have your own needs, monetary, emotional, and otherwise.
You don’t want a gentleman who smokes,

But he cannot even afford the marijuana to smoke with.

When you two dine at a restaurant, he cannot pay; therefore, you cannot leave.

There are dishes in the back to cleanse;

He now must roll up his shirtsleeves to prepare to cleanse them.

But—while y’all washing, watch him!

He gon’ make it to a Benz out of that Datsun

He got that ambition, baby, look in his eyes

This week he mopping floors, next week it’s the fries

However, while you both are cleansing the dishes, watch your man!
He’ll be able to afford a Benz shortly,

Instead of his lowly Japanese Datsun-brand motorcar.
He has ambition, ladylove—look in his very eyes.
This week he is mopping floors—scullery labor, but next week he will be placing

French-fried potatoes in his restaurant’s deep fryer.

So—stick by his side

I know his dude’s ballin, and yeah, that’s nice

And they gon’ keep callin and tryin, but you stay right, girl

And when you get on, he’ll leave your ass for a white girl

Therefore, remain by his side.
I know his friend is flaunting his recent windfall, and certainly, that’s favorable,

And furthermore, all the neighborhood’s courtiers are going to keep calling you,

Trying to intercourse you, but you stay faithful, missy.
When your beau earns his own formidable income,

He will discard you for a Caucasian roundheel!