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    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

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