[Intro: close-mic spoken-word intro, exaggerated crunching sound, lazy G-funk synth whine, warm Rhodes chords, rubbery bassline creeping in, distant cookout chatter, dry comic timing] [crunching sound] What it is, young brother? How you feelin' today? You got a hotdog? Man, I know you got a hotdog on you You ain't got no hotdog? Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Let me get this straight You ain't got no hotdogs? Boy, you came to the right place, young brother Because, see, I been walkin' around this Earth for many moons And if it's one thing I know, it's hotdogs Yeah, baby, it's the W-D I'm from a place, man, we call it the dog pound, you dig? And I think the Lord want me to bless you with this here sermon Now, let me see if I can explain [Verse 1: laid-back West Coast spoken rap, pocket slightly behind the beat, live funk bass, brushed snare, muted trumpet stabs, preacher cadence with comic authority] You can go to any cookout You can go to any party But you will not have a hotdog Until you got invited Now, this may be confusing, young brother Because the cookout is open to the public The barbecue, the party, the fiesta, the festival Is open to all people But there's only a limited amount of hotdogs And the hotdogs are not for sale And the hotdogs are not to be shared And the hotdogs are not for free The hotdogs are for the invited [Chorus: simple chant hook, gang vocals answer the lead, handclaps, bassline bounces harder, bright horn hits after each phrase] You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog Until you got invited [Verse 2: beat tightens, 808 tucked under live bass, jazz piano jabs, delivery becomes more professorial and absurdly serious] Now, the amount of hotdogs you have is in direct correlation To how many invitations you have received Which is in direct correlation To how many cookouts you have been to Which is in direct correlation To how many times you got invited So, see, a person with no hotdogs That's a person with no invitations And a person with no invitations That's a person with no cookouts And a person with no cookouts That's a person with no invitation Now, that's not to say you can never have hotdogs And that's not to say you will never be invited You can have hotdogs, and you can be invited You can be invited and you can have hotdogs But you will not have hotdogs Until you got invited [Chorus: bigger chant hook, call-and-response crowd, funk guitar scratches, clap pattern doubled, lead vocal ad-libs between lines] You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog Until you got invited [Verse 3: darker comic turn, low cinematic strings underneath, bass gets heavier, delivery more suspicious and cautionary] Now, there are many people that think they have hotdogs That have been told they have hotdogs But they don't actually have hotdogs And this is the worst type of person Because when you invite them to the cookout They have no invitations to bring you They have no hotdogs to bring you And then you leave the cookout empty-handed You leave the party with no hotdogs And you become the person that has no hotdogs And you become the person that doesn't get invited Now, let me see if I can make this even more simple [Bridge: beat strips down to kick, snap, Rhodes, and preacher voice; crowd murmurs “tell ’em” in the background] No invite No plate No plate No dog No dog No proof No proof No cookout And if you ain't got no cookout Young brother You are standing outside Smelling somebody else's destiny [Final Chorus: full-band reprise, horns brighter, bassline thick, crowd chanting, preacher ad-libs over the hook] You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog Until you got invited You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog You don't have a hotdog Until you got invited [Outro: bassline continues alone, crunching sound returns, preacher laughs quietly, crowd fades] Now that's hotdog economics You understand? Until you got invited Until you got invited Until you got invited
