Yeah I told this one guy that my record's name is Fear of a Black Tangent
And he was kind of offended and he was like
What like I can't be down cause I'm not a black guy
I was like no it's not really like that it's just

(Hit the switch) the DJ plays the fine dish and adjusts the high-pitch level
(Hint to miss) hand your girl the wine list, she smells of hibiscus pedals
(Whiff the grit) I show up with my rhyme clique, not in designer fit dress codes
(Get a wince) and they think we're timeless and starting singing along to our pirated downloads
(Admit the shit) I've never really been that social, most the times I'm disheveled
(Is this it?) since it's Fear of a Black Tangent, do I got to call white kids devils?
(It's the pits) or do I got to say nature's ovaries are bleeding at a poetry reading
(The kids are pissed) because the thoughts of an underground rap guy don't really go that way
(The kids are pissed) I think the mainstream vs. independent argument is so passé
(Pick my disc) thanks to my 10 stack-high CD duper, I'm an uneasy sleeper
(Get this) but a pacified TV viewer, read about me in a weekly reader
(Fix the myth) and he said I'm a hip-hop treaty breacher with my vivid tales
I spend less time alienating my audience then I do trying to solicit sales
(So lick the dick) because the scene is more than bitches, brew, and stinky reefer
(It's a trip) all the pee-wee leaguers kiss rings on our pinky fingers
(We spit the hits) but why? I am meaningless product on a crowded shelf
A shout for help I simmer in my dilapidated glee
Oh get an account with a popular hip-hop crew, pay the activation fee
And buy a shirt, a hat, a pair of underwear, cuz that's your favorite emcee
And I'm a spacey shoegazer who stares at Pluto, but I'll be a jiggy jigaboo
Who goes through laser hair removal if it means that I could pay my rent and other bills

I've got a point system that determines my happiness
Its unit of measurement is your interest in my crappy shit
Because I'm not dope, I'm not fresh, ideas are overshot and undersung
What a dumb verse that is, I'm definitely not number one
A verse drowning deep within my flooded lung
A song dying deep in a pit of my blood and cum
The kids don't want to listen, they just want to have some fucking fun

(Fit the niche) a Hollywood entertainer will take a Xanax like a chewing gum
(Hit and miss) they're in outlandish debt and their planned text is crude and dumb
(A business risk) you know having a quality end product should be the rule of thumb
(Fix the shit) but it's obvious the culture's been raped, it lies in a pool of cum
(Quit your shift) so I'm up early working while you're squatting in Pilates class
Listening to Morning Becomes Eclectic and nodding to Johnny Cash
(A nigga's pissed) but I don't have the same reservations that a closet Nazi has
But I'm as angst-ridden on Thanksgiving as you are
when your favorite rapper gets dissed on an opinion-based site
You're a hippie who don't know what chicken tastes like
Telling me who to pattern my career after and who I'm sounding like
Hey why don't take your self-absorbed ass and hop on your mountain bike
And go start a cipher at your parent's summer home on the veranda
Because you bite about 20 styles per stanza, but who cares
Because I'm frustrated, my records don't sell, and I can't seem to book a decent gig
And my indie label is understaffed, and these midi cables won't connect the drum pads
To the PA system, and my deejay's missing, and I'm barely able to feed my kid
And I hate my pad, I don't want to visit, I need to put new brake pads on my Honda Civic
I need an office visit from a known producer to do a remix
But it's hard to recoup when he's paid
And I'm starting to shoot my screenplay on Martin Luther King Day
So I'm basically over budget and quite screwed

I've got a point system that determines my happiness
Its unit of measurement is your interest in my crappy shit
Because I'm not dope, I'm not fresh, ideas are overshot and undersung
What a dumb verse that is, I'm definitely not number one
A verse drowning deep within my flooded lung
A song dying deep in a pit of my blood and cum
The kids don't want to listen, they just want to have some fucking fun


Lyrics submitted by ftdbb49

Happiness('s Unit of Measurement) song meanings
Add your thoughts

No Comments

sort form View by:
  • No Comments

Add your thoughts

Log in now to tell us what you think this song means.

Don’t have an account? Create an account with SongMeanings to post comments, submit lyrics, and more. It’s super easy, we promise!

Back to top
explain