Every beat I drop is sick,
And we know I’m as cool as it gets,
But no riding on my disco stick,
Because, girl, you ugly as ****.

This won’t be radio-friendly,
Which I’m quite tired of, admittedly,
So turn it down,
Put on something to appeal to the masses,
With their heads still stuck up their asses.
Let me say something stupid,
But please just make it catchy,
Because, hell I can’t even do that myself,
Just a no-talent kid,
With hopes and dreams,
That Hollywood can find a way to make me,
Something people worship and watch everyday,
Just a way to escape their lives that they hate anyways,
So let me take this art form and tear it to pieces,
Burn it up and dump the ashes.

So they call me the rebuilder,
Come back and show us what to do,
Kick these attention-seekers to the curb,
Time for the kid to make his debut.
No fame,
No love,
No drugs,
No cars,
Just the love of the game,
Something you can’t say,
Something you can’t speak,
Wanting to get paid by the end of the week,
Wanting everyone to know your name,
Wanting to have all the fame,
And that’s cool because you’re pathetic,
We’ll just go ahead and admit it,
But not nearly as pathetic as the people who buy your ****,
It gets hard for an artist to not just walk out and quit,
As we watch people like you destroying this ****.
And it must be impossible to appeal to the ignorant,
Without becoming ignorant.

So give me some more ****ty lines,
Something that doesn’t make sense,
That doesn’t have any intelligence about it,
But just give me a catchy beat,
And we can have ourselves another hit.

This ain’t waking up in vegas,
And this ain’t finding some beat sick,
This ain’t about you not knowing my name,
This isn’t about the alcohol you have to blame,
This is about not respecting the game,
This is about not being an artist but a product,
People buy you and sell you all in the same day,
And you just sit back and act like it’s okay.
As long as you get paid,
As long as you get that money,
But that money isn’t going to buy the dignity you’ve lost,
Or pay off the ignorance that you’ve got.
god kills a kitten every time someone writes about musicians as consumerist products. or at least i do.