(Adlibs)
Verse 1:
You know my album got pushed back for months
My royalties are still captured
I got dissed on the Net—I guess now I'm a real rapper!
With my haphazard delivery, no hot beats to speak of
I couldn't beat up the mic with a brick tucked in each glove!
My AV-club recording was boring
Snoring like sleeping pills
And Grip swallowed six in the morning to delete my sk**s
My tired loops, and my four-track
I'm like every wack rapper you ever heard of, but more wack!
Don't buy it! My album, that is—you won't like it
Every sample you'll recognize
‘Cuz the fans are all cool psychic record guys
I mean, I am, too, man, I'd never lie
My whole albums's a jack
Impeach the President? Yo, how done is that?
Tribute to early rap? DIY ethic?
No, a piss-poor producer—take my name off the credits
Shouldn't have let ‘em put out my demo
I should've said “Listen, don't!
My friends understand why it s**s, but the critics won't!”
It isn't a cheap shot—my whole style is weak spots!
Infuriating, leave ‘em steamin' like a teapot!
Gab Wiz, my high-pitched sidekick? He's bad biz
“Alter-ego? Yo, that's him! He think he Madlib!”
I'm doin' it wrong, unless I'm tryin' to ruin the song—
If that's the case, then my career is really movin' along!
I'm no Edan, MF Doom, Thirstin' Howl and sh**
Or all the other lo-fi rappers whose styles I bit
I'm just Grip—thanks for noticing!
Thanks for your time
We don't see eye-to-eye, but it ain't ‘cuz you're blind
And, yo, thanks for the inspiration, if not the dissent
I guess it wasn't a total waste of the promo I sent!
I bet you probably could rock it better with your own mic
I know it s**s to get a free CD that you don't like
I make the music for myself. I guess I should've kept it that way
And listened to my wack tape alone inside of my Bat-cave
You're so astute, bra. Every minute flaw, you heard it
Can't wait to hear your album…
It must be perfect!