The Vines Follow

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 houses 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 flavor 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 wear checkered pants and never smile

Whatever's cool for your radio dial

Toby 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.