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.

“Party Up” Verse II

Off the chain, I leave niggas soft in the brain
’Cause niggas still want the fame, off the name
First of all, you ain’t rapped long enough
To be fuckin with me and you, you ain’t strong enough

I am a wild man who has been released!

I will pummel you so hard your brain matter will turn to pulp!

Too many up-and-coming African-American emcees

Want to be celebrated simply for arguing with me.

Firstly, young man, you have not rapped long enough

To be considered worthy of opposing,

And furthermore, you are simply too frail to quarrel.

So whatever it is you puffin on that got you thinkin that you Superman
I got the Kryptonite. Should I smack him with my dick and the mic?
Y’all niggas is characters, not even good actors
What’s gon’ be the outcome? Hmm, let’s add up all the factors

Whatever variety of marijuana cigarette you’re inhaling that has you believing

That you’re Detective Comics Entertainment, Inc. superhero Superman,

I have the Kryptonite to match your powers!

Dear audience, should I spank this lowly imitator with

Both my penis and the microphone, doubly humiliating him?

All of you African-Americans are as amusing as characters,

Though you’re unaccomplished actors!

(You play poorly the part of the battle-ready emcee!)

So, what will be the outcome of all this difficulty? Well, let me enumerate your flaws:

You wack, you’re twisted, your girl’s a hoe
You broke, the kid ain’t yours, and everybody know
Your old man say you stupid, you be like, “So?
I love my baby mother, I never let her go”

You rap poorly, you have a confused sense of self, your ladyfriend cuckolds you,

You have no money, the child you and your ladyfriend had is not of your loins,

And everyone knows of these deficiencies in your character!

Even your father admits that you’re a dunce, to which you respond, “What of it?

I love the mother of ‘my’ child; despite her infidelity, I remain with her.”

I’m tired of weak-ass niggas whinin over puss
That don’t belong to them—fuck is wrong with them?
They fuck it up for real niggas like my mans and them
Who get it on on the strength of the hands with them, man

I grow weary of weak-kneed African-American men

Who pule about slatterns who don’t intercourse them exclusively.

What on Earth is amiss with these men?!

They sully this postmodern mating game by corralling independent chippies

Whom my men and I, true African-American males, could entertain.

My men and I intercourse such women simply on the strength

Of our forthrightness and laissez faire, sir.

“Party Up” Verse III

I bring down rains so heavy it curse the head
No more talkin—put him in the dirt instead
You keep walkin—unless you tryin to end up red
’Cause if I end up fed, y’all end up dead

I, like mighty Zeus Ombrios, can make it rain at my whim

—Rains so heavy they’ll seem to curse the heads of those they fall upon,

(Reversing the classic image of man cursing rain falling upon his head

Presented by Italian poet and courtier Giambatistta Basile).

He and I shall not talk any longer—instead, he will be killed and interred in the earth.

Continue to walk away, weak one! Unless you’re trying to finish up bloodied!

Because if I end up seeing red, all of you will up deceased!

’Cause you’s a soft-type nigga
Fake Up North–type nigga
Puss like a soft white nigga
Dog is a dog, blood’s thicker than water
We done been through the mud and we quicker to slaughter

For you are a craven African-American male,

An African-American male whose jail credentials—

Being as they are from the Up North district of New York City—are patently false.

You are a kitten; you are like a lily-livered, fraudulent

Caucasian merely acting as an African-American.

My doglike friends are true friends;

Our fraternal bonds run deep, unlike your fair-weather acquaintance.

My friends and I have been through trying times

And we respond more quickly and violently to provocation.

The bigger the order, the more guns we brought out
We run up in there, e’rybody come out, don’t nobody run out
Sun in to sun out, I’m-a keep the gun out
Nigga runnin his mouth? I’m-a blow his lung out

The larger the skirmish, the more firearms we arrive with.

When we attack a location, everyone comes out—

Dead, that is! No one escapes our wrath!

From sunup to sundown, my handgun remains exposed.

Is there an African-American male in the vicinity fomenting discord?

I will fire my handgun at him and eviscerate his very lung!

Listen! Yo’ ass is about to be missin
You know who gon’ find you? (Who?) Some old man fishin
Grandma wishin your soul’s at rest
But it’s hard to digest with the size of the hole in your chest

Listen to me! Your hind end is about to be missing.

Do you know who is going to find you? (“Who?,” you may ask.)

And the answer is that an elderly man out fishing will,

For your body will be chum at the bottom of a body of water!

Your grandmother will wish, upon hearing this news, that your soul is at rest.

But such news is difficult to fathom after having viewed your grisly corpus!

Lil Jon, The Eastside Boyz, and the Ying Yang Twins “Get Low”

Single version (official video, unedited):




Album version:

“Get Low” Chorus

Three, six, nine, damn you’re fine

Move it so you sock it to me one more time

Get low, get low, get low, get low, get low, get low, get low

A three and a six and a nine! Damnation are you one scrumptious chippie!

Now, if you wouldn’t mind, please jostle your hindside into my crotch

So that I’m flabbergasted afresh!

Lower yourself! Lower yourself! (Repeatedly!)

To the window! To the wall!
Till the sweat drips down my balls, till all these bitches crawl
To all Skeet Skeet motherfuckers, to all Skeet Skeet, goddamn

To all Skeet Skeet motherfuckers, to all Skeet Skeet, goddamn!

Prance about the room, from one wall to another! 
Until my very scrotum perspires! Until every one of these she-devils fellates me!

To all the Oedipal members of my Skeet Skeet Record Label,

(And also to all those males in attendance who enjoy ejaculating!)

To all of you! Goodness gracious! (And again)

“Get Low” Verse I

Shorty crunk, so fresh, so clean,

Can she fuck? That question been harassin me

In the mind. This bitch is fine
I done came to the club ’bout 50 million times

Now can I play with yo’ panty line?
The club owner say I need to calm down

Security guard gonna sweat me now

Nigga drunk than a motherfucker, threaten me now

The short woman is inebriated, though still hygienic and aromatic.

Is she able to intercourse? That is the question that has been harassing my mind!

This shrew is quite attractive indeed!

I have come to this nightclub myriad times.

Now, miss, may I let my fingers fondle your undergarments?

The owner of the establishment tells me to calm myself.

And now the security guard too is badgering me.

This African-American male is more intoxicated

Than a mother-lover—I dare you to threaten me now!

She gettin crunk in the club, I mean she work it
And then I like to see the females twerking
Taking her clothes off, buckey naked
ATL, ho, don’t disrespect it
P-pop your pussy like this
’Cause Ying Yang Twins in this B-I-itch

The strumpet is growing even more inebriated than previously

What I’m trying to say is that she is dancing with every abandon.

May I add that I enjoy especially watching her derrière wiggle and roll?

The effect of which has her disrobing—until she’s nude in the utmost!

I am from Atlanta, whore—do not disrespect the fact.

Instead, lower your torso and raise high your rump.

Because the rap duo Ying Yang Twins—my partner and I—
Are in this harpy (nightclub).

Lil Jon and The Eastside Boyz with me
And we all like to see ass and titties
Now bring yo’ ass over here, ho
And let me see you get low if you want this thug
Now take it to the floor, and if your ass want to act
Then you can keep your ass where you’re at

Emcee and pornographer Jonathan Mortimer “Lil Jon” Smith 
And his gaggle of Eastside Boys are carousing alongside me,

And all of us take pleasure in bottoms and busts.

Now please carry your bottom to me, fallen woman,

And allow me to witness you dancing hunched over,

If you would like to earn the favor of this rowdy!

Now lower yourself until you are straddling the floor.

Also, let me add that if you wish to pretend disinterest,

You can merely stand back, for your services are unwanted!

“Get Low” “Verse” II

Let me see you get low—you scared, you scared!
Drop that ass to the floor—you scared, you scared!

Allow me to watch you lower yourself! You’re frightened! You’re frightened! 

Lower your whole bottom to the floor area! You’re upset! You’re upset! (Do not be!)

Drop that ass (Hey!), shake it fast (Hey!)
Pop that ass to the left and the right (Hey!)

Lower your bottom (Hello!) Waggle it quickly (Hell-o!)

Wiggle and roll that bottom first to the left and then to the right! (Hi there!)

Now back (Ah!), back, back it up (Ah!)

Now reverse, (Ahh!) reverse, reverse that bottom! (Ahh!)

Now stop! (Oh!) Then wiggle with it! (Yeah!)

Halt! (O!) Now wiggle your bottom! (Yes!)

“Get Low” Verse III

Now give me my dough back and go get your friend
Stupid bitch standing there while I’m drinking my Hen
Steady looking at me still asking questions
Time’s up, nigga, pass me another contestant

Mistress, return my monies and bring me your colleague.

That half-witted trollop is simply standing there,

As I drink my Jas Hennessy & Co.–brand cognac,

Staring at me and continuing to ask questions.

However, your time is up, African American woman;

In your stead I’ll enjoy another damsel.

Ho, move to the left if you ain’t ’bout 50
Done talked through three or four songs already
Looking at a nigga with your palm out
Bitch, I ain’t even seen you dance!

Harlot, progress past me if you don’t cost approximately fifty U.S. dollars

You have already misused my time already,

By jabbering through three or four songs I’d prefer to dance to!

You are looking at an African-American male with your palm raised.

Lowgap, I have not even seen prance!

Twerk something, baby, work something, baby
Pop your pussy on the pole, do your thang, baby
Slide down that bitch a little bit then stop
Get back on the floor, catch your balance then drop

Massage my loins with your ample posterior

—A command so worthy to be heard I’ll voice it twice!

Burnish that pole with your feminine parts

—Carry out whatever movements of which you’re most proficient.

Slide down that pole slightly, then surcease.

Return to the dancefloor, retain your equilibrium, then cease again!

Now bring it back up, clap your ass like hands
I just wanna see your ass dirty dance
Ying Yang, we done done it again
And put it on the map like [inexplicable noise]

At this point, re-raise your fundament,

And “clap” its bifurcated cheeks as you might your hands.

All I wish is to see your bum dance of its own accord.

We, the Ying Yang Twins—Eric “Kaine” Jackson and De’Angelo “D-Roc” Holmes—

We have done it again!

We have made this locality famous in the manner of [incomprehensible].