Friday, December 31, 2010

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!