Every Record Label Sucks Dick - R.A. The Rugged Man

Fuck the new clothes, sport shitty jeans, fuck the limousines

When the ho schemes you end up with no beans

There’s only 50,000 heads that are true to this

The rest are clueless to what real hip hop music is

Plus the labels think that artists are pathetic, I don’t sweat it

If they take the credit I will send them to the medic

The industry will gas ya head up, you ain’t shit to them, don’t get fed up

'Cuz when you’re down and out they won’t help you get up

They sit around creating gimmicks, sky’s the limit, but to him it’s

Nothing, A&R men act like schizophrenics

Fuck the negative reviews, I sing the blues

'Cuz if I blow up I still lose

Now how can the musicians be the scholars

When they’re making less than four percent of six dollars?

Most of the kids that kick a rap just don’t deserve opinions, acting like

critics

Looking like Richard Simmons, now they’re sporting Timberlands

And I ain’t trying to be accepted, but it’s hectic

When you try to sell you records and ya record label don’t respect it

Now all these promotional stunts gets me emotional

Not hospitable, I’ll never recoup so it’s not profitable

And I can end up as white trash living in a trailer park

Eatin' tuna fish with my Cheez Whiz

«So how you’d get ya job in the black music department?»

Since I was growing up that’s where my heart went

I won’t be going out like Kurt Cobain, or Tattoo

«Da plane, da plane!»

jibba jibba jib, Jane!

So if my sales don’t exceed the expectations

My relation-ships will be Uzi clips and decapitations

'Cuz the fact is, technically, I need a vasectomy

No pregnancy, kids got the tendency to be sweating me

So do ya own!

Them scumbags is making moneybags

In the meantime, ya Karl Kanis turn to rags

'Cuz labels don’t know shitty rappers from any rappers

So listen rappers, they only know how to pinch a penny, rappers

I end up bankrupt and penniless, while you remain the rich man

My fist is up your ass to rip ya lips off

This ain’t the rock and roll era, so how could you know what’s worse or better?

Chilling in ya polyester sweater

A big advancement doesn’t make the move the wisest

'Cuz Def Jam offered me more loot than Jive did

And the executives at labels, they about equal to McDonald’s workers

They all down to jerk us, trying to keep us poor on purpose

They expect that respect that they don’t give, so don’t think that it’s negative

If you don’t want to let a record executive live

Now pretty bitches wind up giving up they butts

But I’m used to busting nuts in stank perverted sluts

Just the thought of getting signed, you masturbated

Can’t you see the industry is gold-plated?

«He sounds like Ice Cube, let’s sign him!

He sounds like Onyx, let’s sign him!

He sounds like that shit that’s hittin', let’s sign him!»

God forbid I get HIV

I’d be bitin' people and spittin' blood at the entire music industry