Okay...

Guess who's back? Back again?
Same old crap...new album

Now everyone report to the music store, to the music store, to the music store
And buy lots of copies of "Encore"
All right start
Moola time!

Come on little kiddies, spend those bucks
It don't matter if the CD sucks
It's still number one on the Billboard charts
And fills up everyone's shopping carts
(cash register sound)
No worries, Shady's got big fat bag of dough
What else could he possibly do for cash flow?
Try acting again but he'd probably blow
Now that's not a stab at "8 Mile"
Ate lots of Raisinets, napped in the aisle
I got a little bit bored there sometimes
Like right between the beginning and the end time
Good lord, the man's got a gift
Rhyming every word with f*ck or sh*t
Kids like to hear him swear
Like an urban Shakespeare
But his lyrics bash queers
Anybody gonna gripe? Who'd hear it?
Got nine Grammys, it's okay
(Police sirens)
Boy, he sure looks cute
Dressed for court in a nifty suit

Now he's gonna make some cash
He's a smash, poor white boy was trash
Now he's a star, great big star
Gets arrested at bars

Alright just screw it
(I'm Slim Sha-dy)
Re-use it
(Guess who's back?)
Recycle
(I'm a grown man)
Same lyrics...so lazy, lazy

He's funny and he's witty
And he pokes fun at everybody
He's so darn clever and amusing
And says what wants to say
But when Weird Al asked him nicely
If he could parody the "Lose Yourself" video
He refused, it was too precious
And he told him straight out "Over my dead body"

Excuse me, miss, please forget you heard
Me utter on an old song the "N" word
Or when I told Detroit that I couldn't vote
Got assaulted by a puppet and nearly choked
Now what's wrong, Michael, why so sad?
Keep it up, my sale are glad!
Controversy ain't so bad
Don't care if people get mad

Now he's gonna make a load
Millions sold, yeah that boy is gold
Just like his hair, bleach blond hair
His body's smooth from Nair

Alright just screw it
Just news it
Press loves him
Say Shady, say Shady Shady

His homies made two albums
With him on it, but they're still no one
He won't even tour with them
He's got better things to do
Ditched ol' Motown moved off to Holly
With his daughter and her dollies
His brother Nathan wants to be like him
All he needs talent and a tattooed body

Now this is the part where I re-hash stuff
Fill the song with familiar fluff
Everyone looks like they'd heard enough
The beat will distract 'em before they see it's crud
Now repeat myself lyrically, avoiding royalties
What, I'm not creative? But I'm Eminem!
Rubba dubba dubba dubba three men in a tubba
It's so brilliant how I pad this song out with blubba
Tell me, people (what?), people (what?)
Makes a white boy negro? (what?)
Good songs, bad songs, whiney songs, long songs
Dumb songs, mom songs, I'm selling all songs

Everyone support Mr. Press Whore
Gangsta dresser, groin obsesser
MTV is so needy
And so blah-blah-blah-blah, ratings fleeting

He's gonna rake in cash
George Bush-bash, Moby even kissed his ass
Laugh to the bank, bank, bank, bank
And he's got you to thank

Alright now screw it
Just choose it
You want it
No maybes, go baby, baby

{Outro:}
Mmhmm buy my record
Mmhmm buy my record
Ooh boy just buy my record
No, not my police record