The Greatest Poet of Our Time

50 Cent, known to his mother as Curtis Jackson, is stanky rich, and this bold position affords him a unique artistic outlook. After years of meaningless commercialization and pointless in-fighting, Fiddy offers an intriguing combination of vivid imagery and amazing wordplay comparable to the likes of Browning, Byron, Marlowe, or even Shakespeare (tangent: GOAT, Pac or Billy Shakes? Discuss.). Observe, from Mr. Cent's newest single, aptly named "I Get Money":

I take quarter water sold it in bottles for 2 bucks,
Coca-Cola came and bought it;
For billions, what the f**k?
Have a baby by me; baby
Be a millionaire
I write the check before the baby comes,
Who the f**k cares

Clearly not you, Mr. Jackson! The questionable practice of paying child support prenatally is just one demonstration of how 50 flexes his economic prowess. Curtis employs an enticing metaphor in the above snippet; after all, is his brand of rap music not equivocal to the cheap water, which he then hypes up, and then sells to the mainstream? See? Clever.

I'm stanky rich
Ima die tryna spend this shit
South side's up in in this bitch
Yeah I smell like the vault
I used to sell dope
I did play the block
Now I play on boats
In the south of France
Baby, St. Tropez

Being stanky rich is quite obviously a difficult position for anyone, as they are likely to retain the odor of a bank (especially if they, like Scrooge McDuck and Fiddy, have a vault in the back of their house for swimming in gold coins). Curtis offers a send up of his tragic past before delving into the travails that he, as a man who's paid, now must face, offering us lower beings a brief glimpse into the stanky rich life. And for that, literary scholars and listeners alike can take heed.

Get a tan? I'm already black
Rich? I'm already that

Important premise: 50 Cent does not need to be blacker or richer. He appreciates your concerns, however.

Gangsta, get a gat
Hit a head in a hat
Call that a riddle rap
Shit, f**k the chitter chat

A challenge to his critics and rivals alike, Mr. Jackson is never one to shy away from complex wordplay and daring metaphor. Indeed, he touts the expert marksmanship of an unidentified individual, and their startling ability to shoot someone regardless of their headgear. For the sake of art, we'll ignore the fact that a person wearing a hat still has several other equally valid vital organs that aren't obscured, as well as the obvious implication that wearing a hat-- unless 50's targets all wear 19th century headgear-- would only further define such a target.

To end on a good note, Fiddy spins a barrage of complex metaphors:

I'm the baker, I bake the bread
The barber, I cut ya head
The marksman, I spray the lead
"I blood clot, chop ya leg"
Do not f**k with the kid
I get biz wit the cigg
I come where you live
Ya dig?

I dig.