The fate of your life may very well be determined only
by how good you look in white, and let's just say they will want you perfect
Like a leading white male should be
Like a man who's had every single nerve removed
Faced with copper wire, been given gazing globe teeth
Had both eyes capped off with factory glass
Naturally, you freak at the mere thought of being poured toward complete
And so,
And so,
Right there right there all around you
When the very fabric of your rap career dissolves
Right there right there all around you
Like a large dollop of grey plopped hard in the plain water of hack, you sink (x2)
And still they want your autograph on the back of that there ticket stub
Beside the refund policy or just above. Like you were or are about to cry
The reflection of the merch stuffed stale in your stole eye
Some say, they'll go as high as seven fifty on a sturdy bag of sperm
Or the ape's ugly skates from the previous song
Hell, you should start carrying guns till crash
Enter debts officer promise through a hole in the floor
and behind him rides his army of a hundred something swarming forks
all there (all there), unraveling his one kilometer long list of things most certain to be so
You case the dance floor for any people who'd post
And upon clearing your rapping self's coast dive with both eyes for blood at the list
Scanning it's infinity plus one rungs for your surname or face till sure enough...you find it in place between Dollar and Drummond. Beside it, some sort of check-mark or poorly drawn rib is sat, scrawled all red inked and ominous
Scared to the seeds in your teeth
you ask debts officer p. for the key,
and hunt hard for this tic-mark or rib
to find out what gives
And then
there it is:
Middle class
And still they want your autograph on the back of that there ticket stub
Beside the refund policy or just above. Like you were or are about to cry
Which you know can only mean one thing:
Welcomed to the no gamble grind now of what seems middle class or above
(x4)