conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Write me a song called No More Parties in LA with the following description: This song is the first collaboration between Kanye West & Kendrick Lamar. The L.A. based artists swap stories on “No More Parties in LA,” playfully venting their frustrations with “rich people” problems and highlighting Hollywood’s greatest production: the fake celebrity lifestyle. Kanye’s verse has drawn parallels to his sophomore album, Late Registration.
  “No More Parties In LA” has its origins in the My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy sessions, where Madlib left five beats with Kanye, including this one:
  I just paint the scene of how I felt sitting there with Madlib working on these tracks and just hearing the textures.
  After the pair joined forces for Kanye’s Yeezus Tour and Kendrick appeared in the writing credits on Kanye’s 2015 hit, “All Day,” rumors and speculation began to swirl about a possible collaboration. The song’s snippet was originally released as the B-side to “Real Friends.” Make sure the lyrics are different from the original song.
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: [Intro: Johnny "Guitar" Watson & 
  Junie Morrison
  ]
  La-di-da-da-a, da-a (I like this flavor)
  La-da-da-da-di-da-da-a, la-a (La-a, la-a, la-a)
  Let me tell you, I'm out here
  From a very far away place
  All for a chance to be a star
  Nowhere seems to be too far
  [Chorus: Kanye West, 
  Junie Morrison
   & 
  Ghostface 
  Killah
  ]
  No more parties in L.A
  Please, baby, no more parties in L.A., uh
  No more parties in L.A
  Please, baby, no more parties in L.A., uh
  No more (
  Los Angeles
  )
  Please (
  Shake that body, party that bod—
  )
  Please (
  Shake that body, party that bod—
  )
  Please (
  Shake that body, party that body
  )
  [Verse 1: Kendrick Lamar & 
  Kanye 
  We
  st
  ]
  Hey, baby, you forgot your Ray Bans
  And my sheets still orange from your spray-tan
  It was more than soft porn for the K-Man
  She remember my Sprinter, said "I was in the grape van"
  Um—well, cutie, I like your bougie booty
  Come, Erykah Badu-me—well, let's make a movie
  Hell, you know my repertoire is like a wrestler
  I show you the ropes,
   
  connect the dots
  A country girl in North Hollywood
  Mama used to cook red beans and rice
  Now it's Denny's, 4 in the morning, spoil your appetite
  Liquor pouring and niggas swarming your section with erection
  Smoke in every direction, middle finger pedestrians
  R&B singers and lesbians, rappers and managers
  Music and iPhone cameras
  This shit unanimous for you, it's damaging for you, I think
  That pussy should only be holding exclusive rights to me
  , 
  I mean
  He flew you in this motherfucker on first class
  Even went out his way so you could 
  check in an extra bag
  Now you wanna divide the yam like it equate the math?
  That shit don't add up, you're making him mad as fuck
  She said she came out here to find an 
  A-list
   rapper
  I said, "Baby, spin that 'round and say the alphabet backwards"
  You're dealing with malpractice, don't kill a good nigga's confidence
  Just 'cause he a nerd and you don't know what a condom is
  The head still good, though; the head still good, though
  Make me say "Nam Myoho Renge Kyo"
  Make a nigga say big words and act lyrical
  Make me get spiritual, make me believe in miracles
  Buddhist monks and Cap'n Crunch cereal
  Lord have mercy, thou will not hurt me
  Five buddies all herded up on a Thursday
  Bottle service, head service, I came in first place
  The opportunity, the proper top of breast and booty cheek
  The pop community, I mean these bitches come with union fee
  And I want two of these, moving units through consumer streets
  Then my shoe released, she was kickin' in gratuity
  And yeah, G, I was all for it
  She said, "K-Lamar, you kinda dumb to be a poet
  I'ma put you on game for the lames that don't know they a rookie
  Instagram is the best way to promote some pussy" [Chorus: Kanye West]
  Scary, scary
  No more parties in L.A
  Please, baby, no more parties in L.A
  [Verse 2: Kanye West]
  Friday night, tryna make it into the city
  Breakneck speeds, passenger seat—somethin' pretty
  Thinking back to how I got here in the first place
  Second-class bitches wouldn't let me on first base
  A backpack nigga with luxury tastebuds
  And the Louis Vuitton store got all of my pay stubs
  Got pussy from beats I did for niggas more famous
  When did I become A-list? I wasn't even on a list
  Strippers get invited to where they only got hired
  When I get on my Steve Jobs, somebody gon' get fired
  I was uninspired since Lauryn Hill retired
  And 3 Stacks, man, you preaching to the choir
  Any rumor you ever heard about me was true and legendary
  I done got Lewinsky'd and paid secretaries
  For all my niggas with babies by bitches
  That use they kids as meal tickets
  Not knowin' the disconnect from the father
  The next generation will be the real victims
  I can't fault 'em, really
  I remember Amber told my boy
  No matter what happens, she ain't goin' back to Philly
  Back to our regularly scheduled programmin'
  Of weak content and slow jammin'
  But don't worry, this one's so jammin'
  You know it, L.A., it's so jammin'
  I be thinkin' every day
  Mulholland Drive need to put up some goddamn barricades
  I be paranoid every time, the pressure
  The problem ain't I be drivin', the problem is I be textin'
  My psychiatrist got kids that I inspired
  First song they played for me was 'bout their friend that just died
  Textin' and drivin' down Mulholland Drive
  That's why I'd rather take the 405
  I be worried 'bout my daughter, I be worried 'bout Kim
  But Saint is baby 'Ye, I ain't worried 'bout him
  Had my life threatened by best friends with selfish intents
  What I'm supposed to do?
  Ride around with a bulletproof car and some tints?
  Every agent I know, know I hate agents
  I'm too black, I'm too vocal, I'm too flagrant
  Something smellin' like shit, that's the new fragrance
  It's just me, I do it my way, bitch
  Some days I'm in my Yeezys, some days I'm in my Vans
  If I knew y'all made plans, I wouldn't have popped the Xans
  I know some fans thought I wouldn't rap like this again
  But the writer's block is over; emcees, cancel your plans
  A thirty-eight-year-old eight-year-old with rich nigga problems
  Tell my wife that I hate the Rolls so I don't never drive it
  It took six months to get the Maybach all matted out
  And my assistant crashed it soon as they backed it out
  Goddamn! Got a bald fade, I might slam
  Pink fur, got Nori dressin' like Cam
  Thank God for me! (
  Los Angeles
  )
  Whole family gettin' money, thank God for E!
  I love rockin' jewelry, a whole neckful
  Bitches say he fun-ny and disrespectful
  I feel like Pablo when I'm workin' on my shoes
  I feel like Pablo when I see me on the news
  I feel like Pablo when I'm workin' on my house
  Tell 'em party's in here, we don't need to go out
  We need the turbo thots, high speed, turbo thots
  Drop-dro-dro-dro-drop, like Robocop
  She brace herself and hold my stomach, good dick'll do that
  She keep pushin' me back, good dick'll do that
  She push me back when the dick go too deep
  This good dick'll put your ass to sleep
  Get money (Money, money, money!)
  Big, big money (Money, money, money!)
  And as far as real friends, tell all my cousins I love 'em
  Even the one that stole the laptop, you dirty motherfucker! [Bridge: Larry Graham]
  I just keep on lovin' you, baby
  And there's no one else I know can take your pla—, pla—, pla—
  [Chorus: Kanye West, 
  Junie Morrison
   & 
  Ghostface Killah
  ]
  Please, no more parties in L.A. (
  Shake that body, party that body
  )
  Please, baby, no more parties in L.A., uh (
  Shake that body, party that body
  )
  No more parties in L.A. (
  Los Angeles
  )
  Please, baby, no more parties in L.A., uh
  No more parties in L.A
  Please, baby, no more parties in L.A., uh
  [Outro: Junie Morrison]
  Let me tell you, I'm out here from a very far away place
  All for a chance to be a star
  Nowhere seems to be too far
  Swish
  [Produced by Madlib and Kanye West]