Still Nameless

These are my bangers, this is my playlist
These are my hits, but bitch I'm not famous
This is what I'm talking bout, the mainstream hates this
The freaks are all shameless leeches and I'm nameless

Good god I love the Underground, bury me now
Carry me out down that scary aisle and marry me, Sound
So now we bounce out to the very town where terriers howl
At a fair and full moon, they've had it being human for now
I would dig my own grave if it kept me out the mainstream
Cuz I know they would hate me, so why should I safe? See
I'm not about that "awesome" debauchery, that's a lame scene
Encouraging these late teens to put their faith in fake dreams
And go with the flow, so I'd rather spit this sick shit
As in I'm in this music institution as its patient
I'm patient, say shit, these rappers lacking patience
All hoping to blow, but I hope they know most of em ain't shit
So I stay content with my position in this hospital
While I watch all these cocky bullshit artists hit their obstacles
Then fall a full flight of stairs down cuz of all their gaudy gold
It's comical, cuz all this time I'm rocking in my Pop Cult

It's hopeless, nobody shows love to vocals in dope cuts
Unless it's a chrome-studded colloquial faux thug
These folks wouldn't know ruckus if ruckus was known fun
These fuckers just flow tons of this rubbish and blow blunts
No, I don't wanna listen bout the bitches you did last night
And liquor? Pshh, go figure, I figured you'd get your "cash right"
I'm not interested in your triggers or your gat fights
Your clapping's a sack of crap, is that your murder rap? Psych
You're fibbing undercover like you're Gus and Shawn
And I'm a sick motherfucker like I'm ill and fucking your moms
I'd like the bricks, all your drugs, so I can have fun with the law
You run shit hard on your block? Or are you nothing but fraud
Fucking come on, if I was into shit they played on the radio
Hey the labels would pay me the dough to say shit I ain't even know
Lame freaks would play me at home with ladies while baking and stoned
But I'd rather play me alone and say that I hate em, ya know

All my underground artists, where your studios at
I said all my underground artists where your studios at
Are you bootleg and basement when doing your rap
Don't be ashamed you ain't "made it," your music's intact
And you don't answer to nobody, your flow is your own hobby
You're focused and dope but mostly alone at your own party
It's hardly a party when the majority owns Barbie
But knowing that your soul hasn't been sold to copy boasts art
See this is real shit, and a lot of hits are sellout
You sell embellished albums to your crowds? Get the hell out
Cuz I'm ready to yell now and belt this out as swelled sound
You'll hear it well and loud even though I dwell in the Underground