Ice Cube “It Was a Good Day”

Ice Cube “It Was a Good Day” Verse I

Just waking up in the morning, gotta thank God
I don’t know but today seems kinda odd
No barking from the dog, no smog
And momma cooked a breakfast with no hog

I had just awakened in the morning. I thanked the Eternal Spirit.

I do not know how to describe it, but today seems a trifle odd.

No canines are baying; there are no obvious atmospheric pollutants.

And my own mother prepared a repast without hog-meat

(Being recently converted to Islam, I appreciated this thoroughly).

I got my grub on, but didn’t pig out
Finally got a call from a girl I wanna dig out
Hooked it up for later as I hit the door
Thinking, “Will I live another 24?”

I ate well, though I didn’t overindulge.

I finally received a telephone call from a lassie I wanted to penetrate vaginally.

I secured an appointment with her as I exited my household.

I thought, “Will I live through another day?”

(Hopefully so, in order to intercourse said lassie!)

I gotta go ’cause I got me a drop-top
And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop
Had to stop at a red light
Looking in my mirror and not a jacker in sight

Now I must leave to flaunt my convertible lowrider.

If I turn on the automobile’s hydraulic system, its bottom lowers.

I was obliged to stop at a red traffic stoplight.

I scanned my rearview mirror for potential car thieves; there were none.

And everything is alright
I got a beep from Kim and she can fuck all night
Called up the homies and I’m askin y’all,
“Which park are y’all playin basketball?”

And everything is all right.

I got a page on my simple personal telecommunications device:

It was from the lady Kim, who is able to copulate throughout the night.

I telephoned several of my compatriots and I asked,

“Which park are you all playing basketball?”

Get me on the court and I’m trouble
Last week fucked around and got a triple double
Freaking niggas every way like M.J.
I can’t believe today was a good day

If I play basketball, I am a force to be reckoned with.

Just last week I scored double-digit points in three major statistical categories,

And I was playing lackadaisically!

Outmaneuvering African-American males 
Like basketball legend Michael Jeffery Jordan.

I cannot believe today was such a capital day!

“It Was a Good Day” Verse II

Drove to the pad and hit the showers
Didn’t even get no static from the cowards
’Cause just yesterday them fools tried to blast me
Saw the police and they rolled right past me

I returned home and cleansed my body.

I didn’t hear any criticisms from cowardly naysayers today,

Though yesterday they were certainly flapping their gums.

Also thankfully, I received no hassle from the policemen.

No flexin, didn’t even look in a nigga’s direction
As I ran the intersection
Went to Short Dog’s house, they was watchin Yo! MTV Raps
What’s the haps on the craps?

The policemen did not try to intimidate me with force, or even look my way

As I wantonly disobeyed the traffic signage and cruised through an intersection.

I drove to Todd Anthony “Too $hort” Shaw’s house;

He and his fellows were watching the music video program Yo! MTV Raps

I asked whether they would like to play the dice game craps.

Shake ’em up, shake ’em up, shake ’em up, shake ’em
Roll ’em in a circle of niggas and watch me break ’em
With the seven, seven-eleven, seven-eleven
Seven even, back door Lil Joe

I shook them, I shook them, I shook them, I shook them!

I rolled them in a circle of African-American males, who watched me break even.

I rolled consecutive sevens and elevens, the ideal rolls in craps,

And broken even with a seven, then threw the dice backwards to hit a four.

I picked up the cash flow
Then we played bones, and I’m yellin, “Domino!”
Plus nobody I know got killed in South Central L.A.
Today was a good day

I collected my winnings.

Then we played dominoes, and I won that as well.

Also today, no one I knew was murdered in South Central Los Angeles;

Therefore, today was a today day. 

“It Was a Good Day” Verse III

Left my nigga’s house paid
Picked up a girl been tryin to fuck since the twelfth grade
It’s ironic: I had the brew, she had the chronic
The Lakers beat the Supersonics

I left my African-American friend’s house with the money 
I’d swindled from his friends.

I collected a chippie I’ve been trying to intercourse since high school.

It’s ironic: I had the alcohol, she had the marijuana.

The Los Angeles Lakers trumped the Seattle Supersonics 
In national-league basketball.

I felt on the big fat fanny
Pulled out the jammy, and killed the punanny
And my dick runs deep so deep, so deep 
So deep, put her ass to sleep

I groped her large, ample fanny.

I brought forth my penis and penetrated her violently.

And I penetrate so deeply—so deeply—

So deeply that I figuratively kill her hindquarters with my thrusting.

Woke her up around one
She didn’t hesitate to call Ice Cube the top gun
Drove her to the pad and I’m coasting
Took another sip of the potion hit the three-wheel motion

We awoke the next day around one o’clock in the afternoon.

She did not hesitate to call me, O’Shea “Ice Cube” Jackson,”
The top gun of intercourse

—Much like Naval Aviator Lieutenant Peter “Maverick” Mitchell in the film Top Gun.

I drove her to my house, driving with easy confidence!

I took another sip of a potent alcoholic drink
And my hydraulicked car lifted to three wheels.

I was glad everything had worked out
Dropped her ass off then chirped out
Today was like one of those fly dreams
Didn’t even see a berry flashing those high beams

I felt satisfied that everything had gone well.

I dropped my chippie’s posterior off, then peeled away from there!

Today has transpired as a dream in which I have been flying.

I was so pleased I didn’t even notice a policecar signaling me to pull over.

No helicopter looking for a murder 
Two in the morning, got the Fatburger 
Even saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp
And it read, “Ice Cube’s a pimp”

I saw no police helicopter looking for murders.

I ate a fast casual restaurant chain Fatburger-brand hamburger 

At two o’clock in the morning.

I even saw the light-emitting diode marquis 

On the Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company’s Blimp,

Which read, “Ice Cube is an agent for prostitutes.”

Drunk as hell but no throwing up 
Halfway home and my pager still blowing up
Today I didn’t even have to use my A.K.
I got to say: It was a good day.

I am quite inebriated, though I am not vomiting.

I’m halfway home and many people are calling me.

Today I didn’t even have to shoot anyone with my

Avtomat Kalashnikova selective-fire, gas-operated 7.62.39mm assault rifle.

I have to say: It was a good day.

Cam’ron and Juelz Santana “Oh Boy”

“Oh Boy” Verse I: Cam’ron

All the girls see the (boy). Look at his kicks (boy)
Look at his car (boy). All I say is (Oh boy)
Look, mommy, I’m no good, I’m so hood
Clap at your soldiers sober, then leave after it’s over, killa

All of the gentlewomen see the lad. Gaze upon his wing-tips, lad.

Gaze upon his automobile, lad. The only response I verbalize is, “Oh! lad!”

Understand, m’lady, I am immoral—I’m so reprehensible!

I will fire upon your toughs whilst unintoxicated,

Upon which time I will exit the premises.

In other news, one of my bynames is “Killa.”

I’m not your companion or your man standin

Yo, hit me when you wanna get rammed in, I’ll be scramblin
With lots of mobsters, shop for lobsters
Cops and robbers, listen, every block is blocka (Blocka!)

Understand, snaggletooth, that I am neither your companion nor your best beau.

Telephone me when you’re prepared to be penetrated.

I shall be committing certain deeds with my racketeer friends.

We have the ability to afford lobster dinners!

We are burglars in a war with policemen;

Listen! Every neighborhood we invade explodes with gunfire.

But she like the way I diddy bop, you peeped that?
Mink on, Mauri kicks, plus Chanel ski hat
She want the (boy), so I give her the (boy)

Now she screamin out (boy, boy, boy, boy)

But she enjoys the way I grandstand—did you not see that?

I wear a mink stole, Italian-made Mauri-brand footwear,

As well as a French-made Chanel S.A.-brand skiing tam.

This anonymous woman wants the lad, so I give her the lad.

Now she is screaming in ecstasy: lad! lad! lad! lad!

Now she playin with herself, Cam dig it out, lift her up
Ma, it’s just a fuck. Girl, get it out, pick on up
They want the boy, Montana with guns with bandanas
Listen to my homeboy Santana

And now she is masturbating. Cam—myself, Cameron Giles

Laps at her fundament, then raises her hindquarters

Miss, this is merely intercourse. Miss! Remove your petticoat and prepare yourself.

All of the women want the lad. I am Antonio “Tony” Raimundo Montana,

The eponymous character in Brian De Palma’s film Scarface—

I am Tony and I have firearms and am wearing bandanas,

The headgear of my hip-hop group The Diplomats.

Now, please let me introduce my friend LaRon Louis “Juelz Santana” James,

Whom you should lend an ear to posthaste.

“Oh Boy” Verse II: Juelz Santana

Y’all niggas can’t fuck with the (boy), I’m tellin ya (boy)
Put a shell in ya (boy), now he bleedin (Oh boy)
Get him, call his (boy), he wheezin, he need his (boy)
He screamin (boy, boy, boy, boy)

All of you African-American males cannot bother with the lad!

I am telling you so, lad!

One of the bullets fired from my handgun will lodge in your person lad.

Now the one who’s been shot is bleeding unbecomingly. Oh, lad!

Hold him down, telephone his lad.

He is wheezing in pain—he needs the assistance of his lad.

He is positively screaming, “Lad! lad! lad! lad!”

Damn, shut up (boy), he’s snitchin (Oh boy)
This nigga’s bitchin (boy), he’s twistin (Oh boy)
If feds was listenin (boy), damn, whoa, whoa!
I’m in trouble, need bail money, shit

Damnation! Hush yourself, lad! He’s tattling on his partners. Oh, lad!

This African-American male in my clutches is complaining lad.

His tongue is twisting from all his equivocations! Oh, lad!

If federal agents were listening to such confessions via hidden microphone lad.

Damnation! Whoa, there! Whoa!

I’m in unenviable straits. I need money to pay for my release from prison.

Shoot!

Where the fuck is my (boy)? I got trust for my (boy)
That’s why I fuck with my (boy), that’s my nigga (Oh boy)
He gon’ come get his (boy), he got love for his (boy)
That’s my (boy, boy, boy, boy)

Where on Earth is my lad? I have faith in my lad.

That’s the reason I’m playfully fatuous with my(lad.

That’s my African-American friend! Oh, lad.

He’s going to come find his lad; he has love for his lad.

That’s my lad, lad, lad, lad!

“Oh Boy” Verse III: Cam’ron

When he got caught with the (boy) we went to court for the (boy)
Just me and my (boy) and we sayin (Oh boy)
Be on the block with my (boy) with the rock or the (boy)
When the cops come…Squalie!

When my pal was caught with cocaine in his possession,

My group and I went to court to fight for our lad.

It was just my (lad) and I and we were singing, “Oh, lad!”

I routinely sell narcotics in my favorite neighborhoods, lad.

I sell freebase crack cocaine or regular cocaine.

However, when the policemen arrive to interrupt my dealings,

I yell, “Squalie!,” insider code among my posse that alerts all present to run away.

Yeah, this is for the sports cars, bonitas, Jimmy’s,
PJ’s, old school, eighteenth at the sports bar
Eight or nine on the (boy) holla at your boy

Yes, this song is dedicated to high-speed automobiles,

Luscious Latina chippies, Brother Jimmy’s Barbecue restaurant,

PJ’s Bar and Lounge in my hometown Harlem.

And also to old school hip-hop music, and other sundry public houses

The lad is always seen with excessively attractive henhussies.

Shout positively in the direction of your lad!

Killa. Holla. Listen,

It’s the D-I-P (boy) plus the R-O-C (boy)

You’ll be D-O-A (boy), your moms will say (Oh boy)

Again, my nickname is “Killa,” and I represent that moniker.

Now please listen: We’re Harlem-based hip-hop group The Diplomats, lad,

Who is also affiliated with Roc-A-Fella Records, lad.

You will be dead on arrival, lad.

Your mothers will be exasperated with distress, wailing “Oh, lad!”

Shit, ain’t no stoppin ’em. Guns, we got a lot of ’em

Matter fact, Guru, start poppin ’em
Then slap up his (boy) clap up his (boy)

Wrap up his (boy) get them gats (Oh boy)
Diplomats are them (boy) for the girls and the (boy)
Say (boy, boy, boy, boy)

Excrement, there is not any stopping us. Firearms? Why yes, we have many.

As a matter of fact, producer Gimel “Young Guru” Keaton, start firing away!

Then slap up his lad; clap up his lad!

After you’ve murdered him, wrap him as a very Egyptian mummy, lad!

At that point, pilfer his handgun—oh, lad!

The Diplomats are the victors, lad. Fun for both ladies and lads.

Say, “Lad, lad, lad, lad!”

“Oh Boy” Verse IV: Juelz Santana and Cam'ron

Juelz Santana:

Now when they see Cam and his (boy) they say damn (Oh boy)
Santana’s that (boy) that squeeze hammers (Oh boy)
Cannons and bandanas, blammers we don’t brandish
Blam at your man’s canvas, then scram with your man’s leaded
And I’m back with my (boy)

Now, when bystanders see Cameron Giles and his lad,

They say, “Damnation!” Oh, lad.

LaRon Louis James is that lad who fires handguns, oh lad.

We do not flaunt our firearms or our bandanas (we keep them secretly).

I fire at your fellow’s shirt, then scurry away with his firearm.

And now I have returned with my lad…

Cam’ron

Until that man is vanished away in the Grand Canyon
These kids are grandstandin
Niggas demand ransom over them grands scramblin (boy, boy, boy, boy)
Well fuck it, Van Damme ’em, Cam’ll blam-blam ’em

…And we will dump the body of the fellow we murdered in the Grand Canyon.

These young fools are grandstanding.

African-American males demand ransom

While struggling to procure thousand-dollar bills (lad, lad, lad, lad).

Well, forget it, manhandle them in the fashion of Belgian martial artist

Jean-Claude Camille François “Van Damme” Van Varenberg.

If that fails, I will fire my weapon at them.

Call up his (boy), I’m down South tannin
Mommy, I got the remedy, Tommy’s up at the enemy
Hommies and bodies but now my body is feelin finicky
Killa and Capo, we chill in Morocco for real-a
We got dough, chinchilla dough, to fill with them hollows, huh
It’s the (boy) I said it’s the (boy)
I’m the (boy, boy, boy, boy)

Telephone the murdered fellow’s lad.

I shall be in the Southern United States suntanning.

Mother, I have the remedy: My friends and I will

Aim our Thompson submachine guns at the enemy.

So many homicides! So many dead bodies! I’m feeling like a break!

I shall fly to Morocco with friend Joseph Guillermo “Capo” Jones II—sincerely.

We have so much money! We can afford chinchilla stoles!

We use all our money to purchase hollow-point bullets for further adventures.

It’s the lad. I said it’s the lad.

I’m the lad! The lad! The lad! The lad!