My man Lars has got the talent and he flaunts it,
and he drops fat hits every one-hundredth concept.
The onset of his rapping is blunt.
It beats you up in the manner that he’d call post-punk.
You know the fans can’t get enough, always holler for more.
I think they’re even louder than they were before
the previous encore.
Just hope they let him offstage soon;
vital business in the back where the hoodies are strewn.
My boy Front is always managing his vocal takes.
Playing up his nerd persona, every day he integrates.
You want to hear a rap about a game from ‘82?
Good news! MC Frontalot’s got songs for you,
full of rhymes that he drops, pretty hot, make ‘em rock,
with the style he concocts: nerdcore hip-hop.
Flash light on his head, ‘cause homeboy went and started it.
Grabbing your allowances, he knows how to market it.
My boy Front is in the tee shirt business.
My man Lars is in the tee shirt business.
Look at us, we’re in the tee shirt business.
I thought we were musicians — what is this?
Try to sell music, they look at you funny.
Not a transaction that necessitates money,
not with the true cunning of the kids in the know.
But you look at them cheering — notice what? They don’t sew.
Don’t go to the print shop and silkscreen their own,
yet they’re always needing something to cover the torso.
That’s why MC Lars and I provide a product,
sit atop high fashion. Inventory! You got it.
Costume glasses, mouse pads, robot USBs.
Captains are we. Of what? Industry!
Rockefeller, Adam Smith, rock a cellar just like this,
rock a crowd of rowdy kids. So, Frontalot, tell me this:
is it all about the Washingtons or all about the art?
Indie rap, we’re into that, following our hearts.
But part of the job — I mean the other part from caring —
is taking tee shirt money like we’re modern robber barons.
We know every fabric weight, every drop-ship price,
every line-screen density. Designs are precise.
Cotton woven so nice, blind eyes to child labor:
you as the consumer are the lucky money saver.
And we savor all your savvy, as it leads you to our wares.
Up in the gilded age of geekery, we so sneakily prepared
this foolproof method of making just the shirts you want.
With my top hat and my monocle and your money, I abscond.
Horris Records harvesting the forest near your home
for the paper in the liner notes of every disc you own.
You should have known that our sweatshirts were pure baby seal.
Go ahead and treat yourself. You love the way it feels.
The appeals of the listeners: get back on stage!
Where you at? By the merch booth, trying to get paid!
Got a hundred people covered though their arms stay bare.
Only way we get to do it: check the logos they wear.
...I thought that we were rappers, what is this?