Jay Z has got bank, rank and fans to thank

It’s like the “Robb Report” in rhyme form, a checklist of caviar wishes and Champagne dreams come true.

On his latest disc, “Magna Carta Holy Grail,” hip-hop mogul Jay Z takes listeners on a guided tour of the fine art gallery that has become his home.

“House like the Louvre or the Tate Modern / Because I be going ape at the auction,” he boasts on “Picasso Baby.”

“It ain’t hard to tell / I’m the new Jean Michel / Surrounded by Warhols,” he also notes in the song.

Elsewhere, it’s all Bugattis and yellow Lamborghinis and trips to Italy, as Jay Z proudly lays claim to a new class of African-American bourgeois.

But, to borrow a phrase famously coined by Deepak Chopra: “Mo’ money, mo’ problems, b!@#$.”

“New money, they looking down on me / Blue bloods they trying to clown on me,” Jay Z bristles on “Somewhere In America.” “You can turn up your nose high society / Never gone turn down the homie.”

And suffering stuffy, hoity-toity types isn’t the least of the guy’s 99 problems.

Jay Z has a whole host of things to deal with as he becomes ever more rich and famous by the day — nay! by the second.

Ace music insiders that we are, we happened to get ahold of some unreleased Jay Z lyrics that address his elevated status, growing wealth and the repercussions caused by both.

We’ll supply the beat boxin’, now you get to kickin’ these exclusive, never-heard-before rhymes:

“Yo, you think you got struggles in life? / Just ’cause you got less teeth than toes and an orangutan-faced wife? / Stop your snivelin’, son / If challenges was checkers, I got this game won / Try finding some diamond-encrusted hamster pajamas, homie, makes your difficulties seem that much smaller / ’Cause even when he sleeps, the family rodent gotta look like a baller.”

“When I was a kid, favorite movie was ‘The Toy’ / You know the one where Richard Pryor got paid to act a fool for a rich little white boy / Racist as hell, little did I know, it was a modern-day minstrel show / But now I’m gonna turn the tables, take that power back / Gonna get my kids a white dude, someone to make them laugh, maybe fix ’em a snack / It’s gotta be somebody desperate, a total jabroni to do any chore / Hey, who’s got a cell number for Pauly Shore?”

“Launched my own line of cologne, so you can smell like Jiggaman / Instead of a couple of muskrats eating fermented shark meat inside a walk-in tuna can / Coming up with the scent was a breeze, something strong enough to make an Orc wheeze / Naming it, though, took 3,200 tries, as reported in the papers / No one liked my choice, ‘Hova’s Lady-licious Sex Vapors’ / So I settled on ‘Gold,’ it’s called ‘compromise’ / Come get a whiff, and leave with watering eyes.”

“Thought it’d be cool to buy a pro team / So I ponied up for a piece of the Nets, every boy’s dream / Too bad they’re the basketball equivalent of Rob Schneider’s acting chops, ineptitude in shorts / The ‘Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo’ of organized sports / So I divested and started a sports agency, now I rep Geno Smith / But he couldn’t cut it in the NFL with a scythe / Ooops, I did it again, like Ms. Spears / Just hopin’ dude’s paycheck somehow clears.”

“Hey Mr. Culligan Man, I got bank / And I want premium distilled water in my toilet tank / ‘Not possible,’ you say? ‘It’s a waste’/ Whatever, dog, even my droppings got good taste / Look, I don’t hit the john like just anyone / ’Cause when I’m going number two I’m still number one.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to own a tiger like Tyson in his ‘Hangover ’ turn / Or a monkey like Michael or a deer like Hepburn / I need a special pet, something unique as me / Like a gangsta yeti or a dreadlocked bald eagle to keep in captivity / Yo, animal rights activists, stop your whinin’, shush! / Seriously, though, anybody know what the f!@# you feed a duck-billed platypus?”

“Opened the 40/40 Club in Vegas, but business was less than ragin’ / Got replaced by a bratwurst-shaped wannabe Cajun / Emeril who? Kind of name is that? / I’m p-h-a-t; dude’s just plain fat / Now I’m being mean, apologies to chef what’s-his-name / I ain’t mad atcha Sin City, back in town, on my game / Been doin’ this for years, I’m here to stay / And unlike a music critic, people actually care what I have to say.”

Contact reporter Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0476. Follow on Twitter @JasonBracelin.