[Lil Jon]

Snap ya fingers! Do ya step!
You can do it all by yo self!
Let me see you do it! Ay!
Let me see you do it! Ay!
[x2]

Snap ya fingers and then rock wit it
Do it, do it, do it, do it, gon drop wit it
Do a step wit it, put ya hips wit it
All my ladies let me see ya put a twist wit it
You can't do like me, I'm by myself
I do it so good, I don't need nobody else
What's happenin', what's up
Got da purk fired up
What's happenin', what's up
Got Patrone in my cup
I pop, I drank
I'm on Patrone and purk, I can't thank
I'm blowed, to tha do'
Don't know how tha hell I'm gettin home
Ay!

[Ludacris]

custom-made, custom-paid,
or you just custom-fitted?
Playstation 2 up in the ride
and is that Lorenzo-kitted?
Is that your wife, your girlfriend
or just your main bitch?
You take a pick,
while I'm rubbin the hips,
touchin lips to the top of the dick
and then whewwww!
Now tell me who's your housekeeper
and what you keep in your house?
What about diamonds and gold,
is that what you keep in your mouth?
What in the world is in that case,
what you got in that case?
Get up out my face, you couldn't relate,
wait to take place at a similar pace
So shake, shake it

[Jay-Z]

Who you know fresher than Hov'? Riddle me that
The rest of y'all know where I'm lyrically at
Can't none of y'all mirror me back
Yeah hearin me rap is like hearin G. Rap in his prime
I'm, young H.O., rap's Grateful Dead
Back to take over the globe, now break bread
I'm in, Boeing jets, Global Express
Out the country but the blueberry still connect
On the low but the yacht got a triple deck
But when you Young, what the fuck you expect? Yep, yep

Grand openin, grand closin
God your man Hov' cracked the can open again
Who you gon' find doper than him with no pen
just draw off inspiration
Soon you gon' see you can't replace him

Encore, do you want more
Cookin raw with the Brooklyn boys
So for one last time I need y'all to roar

[T.I.]

And you know how we ball
Ridin in shiny cars
Walk in designer malls
Buy everything we saw

You know about me dogg
Don't talk about me dogg
And if you doubt me dogg
You better out me dogg

I'm throwed off slightly bro
Don't wanna fight me bro
I'm fast as lightning bro
ya better use ya Nike's bro

Know you don't like me cause
Yo bitch most likely does
She see me on them dubs
In front of every club

I be on dro I'm buzzed
Give every ho a hug
Niggaz don't show me mugs
Cause you don't know me cuz

don't you know I got
key by the three when I chirp shawty chirp back
Louis nap sack
where I hold'n all tha work at

What you know about that?
What you know about that?
I know all about that

Loaded 44s on the low where the cheese at
Fresh off the jet to the Jects where the G's at

trash can man holds out a battered cup
praying for kind-hearted passers-by to fill it up

people step around, some call him a schmuck
others stumble over him while telling him 'get fucked'

sometimes it isn't always easy as it seems
certain circumstances lead us to bathe in the streams

saltines and water on the daily teeter-totter
cup of coffee and if he's lucky maybe a little blotter

no one knows his history, and no one seems to care
was he in Vietnam or did he encounter a bear

started out a baggage clerk at Chicago-O'hare
now he's panhandling for your bus fair

declare, take a dare, say a little prayer, he's in disrepair
ignore him so you can buy your Vanity Fair

kick it in your easy chair, read your Moliere
and leave him looking pitiful in the city square.

one rainy tuesday morning a man drops him a ten
he hasn't had a decent meal for a while; a godsend

he heads to the mcdonalds down the block
opening the door he's landed his Plymouth Rock

storefront is a welcoming pagoda
the menu's dressed in fries burgers and soda

orders a Big Mac, medium fries and a drink
wolfs that motherfucker down in one wink

he asks for a job, no requisites around here
he smells like a cocktail of shit and old beer

starting thursday morning trash can man is back on track
he'll never meet the ten dollar man that gave it all back

walking the alleys on a dark october night
she's heading home but something just ain't feeling right
a scum of a man lurks back in shadows with spite
nothing more than a mere red spider mite
right?

wrong, wraps her face in his hands
rips her to the ground where a garbage can stands
breaking to pieces an antique parlour grand
her legacy stained to become something bland
expand.

Nine months pass; abortion
not an option
too ashamed to throw the kid into adoption
she could make it on her own if she could just afford the medication
ration.

jump forward six years
government cheese feeding mother's tears
all her childhood frights and fears
reflected in her own child's eyes the past six years
splitting hairs

now through elementary and middle school
living social hell with emotional scars on spool
kid's in a shit situation but sinks threes like Kareem-Abdul
when he hits the shot the court quakes like Istanbul
befool

sophomore year at the junior college
ncaa scouts start to acknowledge
the zero's a hero though it seems far-fetched
he shreds his history though it reeks a stench
clench

four years later pro wasn't for him
still talks to momma on the weekend
living in a one bedroom apartment
shame it's not the place for this kind of talent
resent

six years pass, he's pushing twent-nine
memories of a broken childhood stain his mind
he reaches for some help but there's nobody of his kind
he's got no little light and nowhere to let it shine
blind

momma's forty-six at this point and decides it's time
calls him up, schedules brunch, finishes her dime
she tells him what happened that dark october night
raped and beaten by the lowest human slime
grime

he never knew and it hits him like a truck
now he sees why everything was fucked
twenty-nine years of memories run amok
revenge-- he can find the scum with luck
shucked

he traces back through a maze of court documents
finds out the scumbag shithead's rotting in a cell hellbent
serving twenty years for raping a young girl on cold cement
he heads to the state penitentury with criminal intent
repent

murder is such a strong word
a martyr always has his voice heard
a clean getaway would have been preferred
but he can not hide what had just occured
purged

in somewhat ironic twist of thirt-year fate
the once victim's now a criminal behind an iron gate
and it's a catch-twenty-two on this tarnished slate
life long guilt verses a life sentence for lifting the weight
desecrate

Momma's fifty-eight, slippin
sonny's in state pen trippin
no one else ever cared enough to step in
can you blame them? a single-with-child rape victim
chagrin

a broken family rejected by society
just one of those poor-folk variety
nothing here that looks of notoriety
leave them to wallow in their own anxiety
sobriety

it's sad that in this day and age
when the human race is a title page
we can't come together always have to upstage
stand back and watch the pressure guage
caged