* send all corrections to this typist
Occasionally, the overwhelming temptation to reach
the pinnacle of the pop music genre, will reduce even
the most deplorable examples of the underground music scene
to attempt to change their so-called artistic endeavours, in a
vain attempt to appeal to the public at large.
Behold, the metamorphisis:
Uh, f*** platinum, platinum just ain't enough
We need more money, more house and cars and stuff
I'm sick of juggalos, I want them other hoes
I want them s***** hoes, you get with radio and videos
We'll do whatever it takes to get some air play
We'll make that bounce s***, triple our sales and pay
Yeah, come on s***gy. What? Follow my lead. Let's go.
It's time we change our s*** up to get what we need. Come on.
Uh, radio play!
Yo! Yo! Come on and ride me, ride me,
Pull! Pull!! Come on and hide me, hide me,
Cat black(?) I'm gonna grow(?) one, gold one,
Club Cat(?) You want them old ones, old ones,
Black, black, ???
Love me, I'm on the radio, radio,
Cut, cut, We gonna throw it away, throw it away,
Give up, Give us the radio play, radio play,
What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey!
What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey!
???
The pathetic attempts never cease.
The moronic musical onslaught contiues to insult
the intelligence of the savvy consumer.
How much more can an audience be asked to endure?
Didn't work, ah f***, what happened?
They always told us that we sucked at rapping
Well I don't know how to play a guitar
I'll play the skin flute to be a radio star
I'm sick of keeping it real, and underground
I want the ten millions fans sellout radio sound
Even though we'll be played next summer
Show me a radio d***, and I'll show you a hummer
Here we go, oh my god
Joey fell in love with a college girl
She had a backpack and a pony tail
She said her name was Lisa but I do not know,
She drinks disco lemonade and cherry jello
I can put my Buddy Holly glasses on
I can even sing one of these f***** songs
I can play in checkered pants and never smile
Whatever's cool for your radio (?)
Tommy fell in love with a college...
The borish, b**bling buffoons are baffled in their journey
through the music business. Each sonnet is more ridiculous
than the last. Their strides towards musical success are
little more than a stumble into complete failure.
That was bullshit. What the f***? You think of something!
I'm sitting here trying to write hits, your doing nothing
You wrote the crump(?) s***, but did it work? No.
It flopped on its a**. At least I tried though.
Alright, ain't no need to be fighting with each other
We need to start talking about relationships and lovers. Why?
Can you sing? No. Niether can I.
If we're gonna be radio stars, we atleast gotta try.
? Remix, uh, remix, Clownboy, uh, feel me
touch me, Clownboy, remix, uh
Girl, I gotta let you know, on radio
I want to lick you from head to toe
Girl, your perfume, it's smelling so sweet
I want to make love, between the sheets
Girl, play my song, when I'm on the phone long
I'm a radio man, and I know that I can't sing, yes I can
Give me one more chance, and I'll make you dance
Girl, we make radio songs, for radio fans, we can't go wrong (4x)
Girl, so you f***** my boy, I don't give a f***
After years of endless attempts, ICP received almost no radio play. Finally, the two dim witted idiots
decided to stay with the wicked s*** for life.
Occasionally, the overwhelming temptation to reach
the pinnacle of the pop music genre, will reduce even
the most deplorable examples of the underground music scene
to attempt to change their so-called artistic endeavours, in a
vain attempt to appeal to the public at large.
Behold, the metamorphisis:
Uh, f*** platinum, platinum just ain't enough
We need more money, more house and cars and stuff
I'm sick of juggalos, I want them other hoes
I want them s***** hoes, you get with radio and videos
We'll do whatever it takes to get some air play
We'll make that bounce s***, triple our sales and pay
Yeah, come on s***gy. What? Follow my lead. Let's go.
It's time we change our s*** up to get what we need. Come on.
Uh, radio play!
Yo! Yo! Come on and ride me, ride me,
Pull! Pull!! Come on and hide me, hide me,
Cat black(?) I'm gonna grow(?) one, gold one,
Club Cat(?) You want them old ones, old ones,
Black, black, ???
Love me, I'm on the radio, radio,
Cut, cut, We gonna throw it away, throw it away,
Give up, Give us the radio play, radio play,
What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey!
What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey! What? What? What? Hey!
???
The pathetic attempts never cease.
The moronic musical onslaught contiues to insult
the intelligence of the savvy consumer.
How much more can an audience be asked to endure?
Didn't work, ah f***, what happened?
They always told us that we sucked at rapping
Well I don't know how to play a guitar
I'll play the skin flute to be a radio star
I'm sick of keeping it real, and underground
I want the ten millions fans sellout radio sound
Even though we'll be played next summer
Show me a radio d***, and I'll show you a hummer
Here we go, oh my god
Joey fell in love with a college girl
She had a backpack and a pony tail
She said her name was Lisa but I do not know,
She drinks disco lemonade and cherry jello
I can put my Buddy Holly glasses on
I can even sing one of these f***** songs
I can play in checkered pants and never smile
Whatever's cool for your radio (?)
Tommy fell in love with a college...
The borish, b**bling buffoons are baffled in their journey
through the music business. Each sonnet is more ridiculous
than the last. Their strides towards musical success are
little more than a stumble into complete failure.
That was bullshit. What the f***? You think of something!
I'm sitting here trying to write hits, your doing nothing
You wrote the crump(?) s***, but did it work? No.
It flopped on its a**. At least I tried though.
Alright, ain't no need to be fighting with each other
We need to start talking about relationships and lovers. Why?
Can you sing? No. Niether can I.
If we're gonna be radio stars, we atleast gotta try.
? Remix, uh, remix, Clownboy, uh, feel me
touch me, Clownboy, remix, uh
Girl, I gotta let you know, on radio
I want to lick you from head to toe
Girl, your perfume, it's smelling so sweet
I want to make love, between the sheets
Girl, play my song, when I'm on the phone long
I'm a radio man, and I know that I can't sing, yes I can
Give me one more chance, and I'll make you dance
Girl, we make radio songs, for radio fans, we can't go wrong (4x)
Girl, so you f***** my boy, I don't give a f***
After years of endless attempts, ICP received almost no radio play. Finally, the two dim witted idiots
decided to stay with the wicked s*** for life.