conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Write me a song called 2011 BET Hip Hop Awards - Indie Meets Mainstream Cypher with the following description: Another classic in the 2011 BET Awards’s cypher series. Make sure the lyrics are different from the original song.
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: [Verse 1: Big K.R.I.T.]
  They hollering at the K back
  M.I crooked slay that, been killing beats since adapt
  Yeah me and rhymes go way back, way back
  Time machine flow when I was swanging and riding
  If you ain’t repping for your people then you’re shucking and jiving
  Tap dancing and sliding to beat that you can’t comprehend
  How dare you speak on where I’m from if you ain't never been
  Fried Kool-Aid who made, never ate that in fact
  Grandma was chefing for real, made meals off love and scraps
  Thank God for my country folk and family
  Instead of a metaphor I’d rather take it by James Anderson
  Damaging how they televised Basketball Wives
  And not tornadoes in the South and how we lost lives
  Still rebuilding, pray for the children that have no hero
  Only the villains that tell them get money
  Sleep when you die, I find it funny
  Because when you rest in peace don’t mean fast asleep in slumber
  Thank God and stay humble
  [Verse 2: Tech N9ne]
  Real rock, rap and not to Xerox, weird not
  Enough to make you fear a lot from here watch
  I ran scrimmage and I fought to the damn finish
  And I popped eyes open without eating me canned spinach
  My fans in it constantly tellin' me I can win it
  If I stand grimace damagin' man every damn minute
  I blend then expands quick it slams wicked rhyme
  Grand spittage, H.A.M. with it, fam dig it's N9ne
  Chea, hard to see me like the background
  Your rap styles comin' softer than a cat’s meow
  Red laces big-booted like I’m Iraq bound
  That frown will get you ate by my cannibal from Sac Town
  So relax pal, pat down, gat down, bat down, blackout
  With a fat smile I might react foul, so don’t make this cat growl
  I caught everybody when I spazzed, wow—who do I catch now? [Verse 3: Machine Gun Kelly]
  Cleveland, what up?
  Yeah, Kells, uh, Cobain's back
  I smell like teen spirit, man, Cobain's back
  And I got these teens screaming like Cobain's back
  You try me and I’ll make you a legend like Cobain’s strap—blaat
  They say I’m wasting my time
  Where the watch at? How he got that?
  They say it wasn’t my time
  Where the watch at? Now watch that
  Speed of my syllables rhymes, better clock that
  Stop that, Bad Boy gave me the contract and I dot that
  Now who the heck is this, with his pants red as 666
  All up in your girlfriend’s TwitPics?
  That Eastside boy up out the 216
  That’s making these other rappers get Melo like the Knicks, eh
  Get you spitters huck-to finished
  And when y'all win the game and the cypher was a scrimmage
  So everybody gossiping tell a friend and a pigeon
  How this white boy just bodied Black Entertainment Television
  Lace Up!
  [Verse 4: Kendrick Lamar]
  Pushing a hoopty, bumping the Fugees
  My life is a scary movie, your life is a male groupie
  Kendrick Lamar broke the handle with 22 Uzis
  Stuffed it in my mouth and cack-cack-cack!
  Killed the rappers that knew me
  Compton’s most wanted, I live my life in a dungeon
  Came out a dragon I can probably touch the sun with...
  My bare hands,
   what are your plans? To win a Grammy?
  Sweet taste of victory, like Oprah’s punany?
  Don’t judge me that’s just some irony, trust me
  I like to laugh and get lucky
  My sense of humor is rumored to be a Gemini’s company
  Come with me
  , in the planet rock
  And I plan to rock in a plantation
  Chasing many legends that made it
  Face it you will never be Pac-10 even when the planet stop
  I’m 2012 on a 12-inch, aiming straight at your pelvis
  Elvis would come back as a Black if he was hot
  You’re just a mascot on a Kim Kardashian ass-shot [Verse 5: B.o.B]
  Full-blooded pedigree, prize fighter special breed
  My flow slow, they say it got special needs
  I’m talking Ritalin, maybe even Adderall
  Four bars from me would probably kill your whole catalog
  Sixteen would make Deborah Lee cut the channel off
  Thirty-two would make Paul Bunyan take the flannel off
  Sixty-four would make your mama want sixty more
  I eat haters, check the crumbs on my kitchen floor
  They say my music’s pop
  I call it buyin' cribs for my mama, shakin' hands with Obama
  And if you don’t believe me go online and check the pic
  And if you check my flip cam you’ll see your sister in a flick
  I’m perfect from the field it’s like I can’t miss
  I’m on a rant like Durant no pick no assist
  Ya'll tripping on TIP, get off my man neck
  I’m just saying Martha Stewart left prison in a jet