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Insane Clown Posse Bizzar Radio Stars 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, fuck 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 shitty hoes, you get with radio and videos We'll do whatever it takes to get some air play We'll make that bounce shit, triple our sales and pay Yeah, come on Shaggy. What? Follow my lead. Let's go. It's time we change our shit 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 fuck, 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 dick, 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 faggot 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, bumbling 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 fuck? You think of something! I'm sitting here trying to write hits, your doing nothing You wrote the crump(?) shit, but did it work? No. It flopped on its ass. 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 wanna lick you from head to toe Girl, your perfume, it's smelling so sweet I wanna 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 fucked my boy, I don't give a fuck After years of endless attempts, ICP received almost no radio play. Finally, the two dim witted idiots decided to stay with the wicked shit for life. |
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