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!)
[infantspeak]

“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
[indiscernable]
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.
[untranslatable]
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!”

“Make Em Say Uhh!” Verse IV: Mia X

We capitalize and monopolize on everything we see, keep pistols drawed
And cocked, we got the industry locked, we can’t be stopped, too hot
Check the spots that we got, on Billboard
This Tank can set up roadblocks, we fadin all you hoes
We capitalize on and monopolize everything we see; we keep our firearms drawn
And cocked. We have the industry under our control.
We cannot be stopped, for we are too fetching.
Examine the positions of our songs on the Billboard song popularity charts.
This No Limit Soldiers member, despite being female, can set up roadblocks.
We are murdering you whores.
Want some mo? Then let’s go, stretch you out like elastic
Zip that ass up in plastic, have ya folks pickin caskets
We drastic, our tactics is homegrown in the ghetto
So feel the wrath of this sista, it’s like you fightin ten niggas
Would you like some more? Then let us go!
I will stretch you out in the manner of elastic.
I will make sure you’re placed in a body bag;
I will make certain your parents have to select caskets for your funeral.
We are severe! Our tactics are self-developed in the slum.
So please, feel the wrath of this African-American woman.
Fighting me is similar to fighting ten African-American males.
Forget the baby boys, it’s the biggest mamma Mia
The Unlady Like diva, lyrical man-eater, believe her
Or see her, and get that ass embarrassed
If you’re a decision maker, guaranteed you’ll get carried away
Forget about all the childish males; I am the largest mother Mia “X” Young.
I am an unladylike (much like my 1997 album Unlady Like) prima donna.
I lyrically best my male opponents—believe her (me)!
Or see her (me), and your whole self will be made embarrassed.
If you’re a decision-maker, I guarantee you will become hysterical.
So stay in yo’ place, when ya hear Mamma speakin
Cannon spray, clear the way, when ya see the Tank creepin
So please remain where you are when you hear Mother speaking.
The emblematic No Limit tank figuratively sprays rounds—
Please clear the way when you see the Tank approaching.

“Make Em Say Uhh!” Verse V: Mystikal

A’ight
I’m that nigga that rappers look up to when they won’t know how to do it
You could be the little bitty skinny motherfucker with the braids in his hair
Usin limos on Tchoupitoulas
All right!
I am that African-American male who other hip-hop artists idolize
When they are still honing their craft.
You could be like me, a small, slender Oedipus with his hair braided
Being driven in limousines on Tchoupitoulas Street in New Orleans.
I done paid my dues, but still played the blues
Nigga, play me like you was scared to lose
I’m still a fool, you ain’t heard the news
I was a No Limit nigga, makin major moves
I have already paid my dues, though I have also had my sadder days.
African-American male, toy with me as if you were frightened of losing.
I remain a fool—have you not been apprised of the newest developments?
I was a No Limit Records member, improving my financial situation.
I won’t stop now, bitch, I can’t stop
You can’t stop me, so bitch don’t try, we
We TRU soldiers, we don’t die
We keep rollin, na nah-nah-nah-nah
I will not stop now, you fishwife—I cannot stop!
Also, you cannot stop me, so do not try, you ogress. We,
We are The Real Untouchables soldiers, we do not die!
We will only keep advancing: na nah-nah-nah-nah.
All aboard, bitch, it’s like a choir inside
The group goin, “Hallelujah!”
Niggas goin to war, got to, fightin and shootin inside rumors
Bitches be sayin he there, we there, beware!
C there, Silkk there, Fiend there, Mamma there, P there
All aboard, harpy! It is like a choir within. The singers sing, “Allelujah!”
African-American males are going to war—they must!
They are fighting and shooting handguns as if at unkind rumors.
Tramps have been saying, “He is there. We are there. Therefore, beware!”
Corey “C-Murder” Miller is there! Vyshonn King “Silkk the Shocker” Miller is there!
Ricky “Fiend” Jones is there! Mia “X” Young is there!
And Percy Robert “Master P” Miller is there!
 Ain’t no salary cap on top of my dollars
I roll with nothin but them No Limit riders
I gets down, nigga, I hold my tank up high
Watch how many bitches get wild, na-nah na-nah
There is no limit to my salary. I have so much money!
I do not associate with anyone but No Limit Records artists.
I do certain activities generally, African-American male.
For example, I hold my No Limit Records emblem up high.
When I do so, watch how many strumpets go berserk, na-nah na-nah!