Call me the hitman, it's kinda hard, it? What feared to become in the game, we became it So I a masterpiece of an industry tainted It's not a lip of grass, so it's graphic, it The hitman, say it again, the The hitman, uh, say it again, say, say it
Some people say I'm extreme, broadcast a beam live through a Screaming as Jimmy Iovine, as as Don King Boxed the ghetto, so be champ with the bling the arena, the internet is the ring You train audible Queens, to music to fiends? Then Def Jam, supreme team, the same Except critical now, it's digital cocaine The goal to control every brain Like, Cadillacs for contracts in the Now it's rap you sixty, for contract 360 The trick, switch the degrees the three sixes Artists are left with zero, you who received the riches Which is the reason why only a few moguls Globally, the pioneers are in a chokehold Enough to make the go postal Watching these old folks get fucked for vocals
If you are not performing fellatio for rotation What's the ratio for play at your station? If not paying to play, the record is dead Puts a whole new spin on head/Radiohead They got a thousand plays a week and we selling the units (uh) Put they best rep up, couldn't stand next to it (woo) People wanna relate, they wanna to it a lyrical check, is this enough for you to flex to it, huh? Or do you need more Should I be more black? Will that change view? Should I die my hair blonde? Should my be blue? (come on) Just a couple of questions I up for you (uh) But these eleven and half shoes, you can't those I made head lines/headlines like corduroy And probably get from television and marketing Targeting music politics, provoking it
The hit (*gunshot*), man, kinda hard Let's release sex tapes, so we can become photographs of titties and asses Increase our buzz, impress the (uh) I she was supposed to be so passive Now you just another ass in the air an asterisk Cell phone songs, you never be classic You sold your soul, they that remastering B, why does it have to be so skin peel, makes the song more plastic Follow the program man, stick to the Twelve to eighteen, you know the These want popcorn, they want slapstick the chorus goes tisket, tasket But I'm not willing to it and mask it (come on) This might take a of listens for you to grasp it The hit (*gunshot, drops*)