| |
 |
MP3 Klingeltöne für Dein Handy
|
|
Interpret:
Insane Clown Posse
|
| 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 aint enough
We need more money, more house and cars and stuff
Im sick of juggalos, I want them other hoes
I want them shitty hoes, you get with radio and videos
Well do whatever it takes to get some air play
Well make that bounce shit, triple our sales and pay
Yeah, come on Shaggy. What? Follow my lead. Lets go.
Its 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(?) Im gonna grow(?) one, gold one,
Club Cat(?) You want them old ones, old ones,
Black, black, ???
Love me, Im 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?
Didnt work, ah fuck, what happened?
They always told us that we sucked at rapping
Well I dont know how to play a guitar
Ill play the skin flute to be a radio star
Im sick of keeping it real, and underground
I want the ten millions fans sellout radio sound
Even though well be played next summer
Show me a radio dick, and Ill 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
Whatevers 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!
Im 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, aint 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 were 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, its smelling so sweet
I wanna make love, between the sheets
Girl, play my song, when Im on the phone long
Im a radio man, and I know that I cant sing, yes I can
Give me one more chance, and Ill make you dance
Girl, we make radio songs, for radio fans, we cant go wrong (4x)
Girl, so you fucked my boy, I dont 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. |
Eingetragen |
24.Jan.2002 12:01:48 |
Letzer Aufruf |
03.Dec.2004 12:12:15 |
Besucher |
164 |
|
|
|
|
