swag me the fuck out Hair brushed to the side, you probably have your doubts But I'm no regular guy, Andrew Noz, turn it out Drinking Great Divide at Earl's, I'm not chilling on the couch You can catch me acting hyped on the mic at random shows Cause my dad knows the dad of the man who owns Cameo I don't have much talent, no, but I understand it, though. So my idol's Mannie Fresh and my jokes are manifold I make music for kids used to be into art And whose high school friends and them have since grown apart They maybe moved to Bushwick but making hip friends was hard So they applied to law school, started to focus on their job It's time I got back, time I got back I don't even know how I got on this track but I don't need no backpacks, fitted caps, or snapbacks I can do bad all by myself, got no scene cause I got that swag He wants to keep doing his rap thing - I hope he's kidding You're gonna do another album - I hope you're kidding I know I don't have any talent - you hope I'm kidding Sorry to disappoint but give this shit another listen   some people blossom after college and turn into social butterflies Me I gave economic law enforcement another try turning into Will Ferrell's character from "The Other Guys" But pimps don't cry and I might cause I'm trying to undermine Conventions of masculinity. It's not cause I'm sad, I'm just sensitive to sensitivity, artistic chicks want to hit that Had friends as a kid so in gym class I was never picked last Plus my middle school was so PC the popular kids all picked Macs (what the fuck does that mean?) But here I am acting like I got picked on in the lunch line Victim's grown coping mechanism: play hip-hop, spit punchlines And it's a fun time being clever, but how could anyone love me Just another depressed comedian who's not even that funny and who's not even a comedian so really just depressed I get lost, I confess, if the answer's not in a test Gotta get ahead, gotta be the best, can't be into it, gotta be obsessed but I got into school, played some good sets, and I'm drunk on a Sunday: success   He wants to keep doing his rap thing - I hope he's kidding You're gonna do another album - I hope you're kidding I know I don't have any talent - you hope I'm kidding Sorry to disappoint but give this shit another listen

 I dont know if I could live anywhere beside on either coast, so does that make me awful? Honestly it probably does, but at least I get "30 Rock," I gotta go see a little more of what's in between the coast, but if they dont have vegan bakeries, i'ma take some pics of traintracks and go home  Yo, I'm from the Bay Area, I liked it quite nicely I came of age after Mac Dre, during hyphy
 Spent four years in Boston, then on down to Spike Lee's
Brooklyn, then Manhattan, now I'm packing here's what I think:
 There's a lot of land in between the two coasts
 But I haven't been to Kansas since I was two years old 
 And I think I was bred to like the country as a whole
 But on maps when I see red, I don't want to go What did he just say? What a fucking snob I bet he's probably gay, I bet he hates God I bet he was okay with the World Trade mosque For the record: I'm not, I don't, and I was Or am, see, I think the key is tolerance
And by stereotyping I might be being a hypocrite
But climate change: I need a place that's fighting it
 If not Priuses, they have to be okay with scientists
 I might do okay in Austin, or maybe Ann Arbor Somewhere with good coffee, somewhere that's got a harbor (like... Austin or Ann Arbor?) No tea parties in my Boston, I'll lay that out for starters Name my first kid Barack William Albert Gore Carter See... I need hipsters and yupsters and yuppies and clubs full of former frat bros from the country 
who make a lot of money doing wall street something and ball like it's nothing
so you have something to complain about
 They meet models in Soho house
 Bought your East Village apartment when they kicked you out 
Now its a condo with an all-glass facade, saw it on vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com
 And you're not faultless, you keep it on the downlow
But I saw how much you paid for your swank Brooklyn brownstone?
 gentrifiers, obsessed with neighborhood profiles
Do you do that shit in Ohio? I don't know I dont know if I could live anywhere beside on either coast, so does that make me awful? Honestly it probably does, but at least I get "30 Rock," I gotta go see a little more of what's in between the coast, but if they dont have vegan bakeries, i'ma take some pics of traintracks and go home  
you might try Seattle if you haven't been cool since the nineties or Portland if your marketing start-up just sold out to Nike Or if you're Colin Meloy or if Seattle's just too pricey You like bike lanes and have a calf tattoo of a bike chain Yo, you need to step up your brown rice game You're eating quinoa, but the truth is you don't like grains "People call me raw, but you know that's just a diet thing" Like, I don't eat meat but I'll only protest you nicely
San Francisco, where everyone is working, 
Mission burritos, the Castro, Berkeley
 We got Father Guido, but not that into church
 We worship Larry Page, Steve Jobs, and Mark Zuckerburg
 East Coast has the cold, but the colleges are old
 And all the elites love Ivy Leagues and hiding where they'd go
 Like, where'd you go to college? Um, in Boston
 So you mean Harvard. was it river or quad, then? Quad, that's awful, haha, now we're best friends
 I'll make sure you make partner over that dick from UPenn
 Boston is small but there's nothing more elite 
Than a faded Red Sox cap with a jacket made of tweed
 That says look at me, I'm the best in my field, I'm acceptably eccentric
With tenure and a book deal
 But it only looks real when you're in the ivory tower
 you gotta go to DC if you want any of the power
You're twenty three, you get up at weird hours
 To read the news feeds before any more word gets out 
You write and you analyze, summarize as the sun rises
 The rest of the country's asleep, wake up and complain you're lying
 But you come back with, "at least I'm not from Los Angeles,"
 We're awful, but we're not Entourage,that town is shit
Yo, but East Coasters, I'm sorry but the fact is it's not that they're all more shallow, they're all just more attractive. I dont know if I could live anywhere beside on either coast, so does that make me awful? Honestly it probably does, but at least I get "30 Rock," I gotta go see a little more of what's in between the coast, but if they dont have vegan bakeries, i'ma take some pics of traintracks and go home So midwest and down south, I don't really mean it, Rust belt and Rocky Mountains, you know I think that You all have your own swag, you're all pretty awesome It's just a bad rap with a one-joke concept Besides it's not like we're in any sort of contest Though New York would probably win that regardless But let's be honest, this place makes you an asshole I guess I gotta leave while I can, but... I dunno

Dag, yo, is this the wrong kind of swag rap? Should I wear tall socks and a box logo camp hat, talk about killing cops, or is it really just I can't rap? Cuz that'd be kinda odd, but if that's it, then that's that Bright lights big city, fucking madcap, my first year here was bad, i was sad sack, now I'm past past that, it's manhattan grant, Woody Allen, starfucker, yo blast that on bandcamp. Send it to blogs, but they're never gonna write back, never gonna find yourself having a most hyped track. It's all Dubstep remixes of songs by Phoenix, backpack rappers sampling Florence and the Machine, Jesus, all right, Hypemachine, i didn't mean it, but when I type in my name, I'd kinda like to see it, be an E! level celebrity, C list or D list, new dude, and it's not that easy being green, kids. When I get big, I wanna be like Juiceman, I wanna be like Sufjan, I wanna be like Kool A.D., but really more Sufjan with less God, more Michigan and a little less Age of Adz, a little less blatant fake based God, wearing white vans, taking the 50 states on, you could say thank you, but I'd still probably get your name wrong, my mind's a mysterious story, vincent twice, vincent twice, say it thrice, say it thrice, say it thrice. my album's not good but you know how much I tried, so you say something kind like the effort was nice.   There's more than a fine line between the zeitgeist and my life, but I'm willing to quit the whining and spit some lines if the time's right, your laptop and android double as your night lights, and your social bubble's stuck on some post-ironic nightlife, can't choose between craft beer and a fucking can of high life, don't want to be reminded that relevancy is finite... but it's finite, so go and get your mind right, life goal: infomercial, boxed set, time life   I'm just mad cause my beats suck, they sound like fucking Sean Kingston deep cuts, with teen Adam Goren reading lyrics from a screen pissed off that he couldn't get a crowd to his tweetup. I was never bullied, I never got beat up, so it never gets better, more Beck less Glee, I'm tired of fighting for a lost cause, too many nights typing, spamming indie rock blogs, in all honesty I didn't try hard enough, not my department so I'm gone like Gottschalks, want it all like Napoleon, jealous cause you got shocks, non-hip dad, quoting that and Borat nonstop   Meta meta meta, rocket man, Elton John, Ground Control, this is Grant, I am rap's Major Tom, I'm kinda getting scared, been up here too long, drunk girls think that love is a Grant, they're not wrong, but I won't come back, I'm too far gone, Look down on life from above, Susie Salmon, Otherwise I'd mess it up, Peter Jackson so I hide behind slant rhymes, rely on bad puns. It's my kitchen, but I'm no Tony Bourdain, too many reservations, fried chicken David Chang, prize goes to the winner so I leave how I came, Hi ho silver second place, what's my name? So I say to myself, Given your background, I'm assuming this is crap, dude, or comedy, honestly, otherwise I'm laughing at you. That and a lack of talent's what I keep coming back to. That and a lack of talent's what I keep coming back to   Too much introspection, not enough dancing, time to make some corrections, Jonathan Franzen.

Why you so scared to dance? Stop standing around This is Grant on the track Stop standing around You look sad Stop standing around America's too fat Stop standing around Stop standing around, stop standing around You say you can't but you can, you gotta start now yo, stop standing around I'm a disaster, but look at me now So I really couldn't dance when I was a middle schooler And I get more bad every year I get older But fuck that, I'm fearless now, I'm bolder I'll teach you how to dance, it starts in the shoulders If you can do this, you can pull anything off Move involuntarily like you about to cough Twitch to the left like you're going into shock Jemaine and Bret, epileptic dog  Move rustily like a tin can pop and locking awkwardly like the tin man Shit, man, why you gotta move stiff, Grant Cause it's that lateral movement taking over my hips now I'm getting tired but ain't about to sit down From side to side, the beat's like a whip A couple High Lifes, this is classy shit I mean why have music if you don't dance to it? Why you so scared to dance? Stop standing around This is Grant on the track Stop standing around You look sad Stop standing around America's too fat Stop standing around Stop standing around, stop standing around You say you can't but you can, you gotta start now yo, stop standing around I'm a disaster, but look at me now So you're standing at the bar drinking Amstel Light With your dress jeans on, a J Press shirt, right? You probably work at a hedge fund, right? Your girlfriend works at Goldman, that's tight, You got a midtown apartment that's bare inside Sing Bon Jovi with your frat bros at karaoke night, man I don't give a fuck what you do with your life But when you stand there like a tool, it ruins the vibe And the girlfriend, yo I know they work you to death Like, at two o'clock you just want to go to bed But you got another date with your best friend Excel You gotta learn to take care of yourself Have a vodka, some red bull as well Hit the dance floor, tell your boss go to hell Do that girl thing, put your hands over your head And then come over here and I'll teach you the rest Why you so scared to dance? Stop standing around This is Grant on the track Stop standing around You look sad Stop standing around America's too fat Stop standing around Stop standing around, stop standing around You say you can't but you can, you gotta start now yo, stop standing around I'm a disaster, but look at me now Twitch your shoulders, twitch your shoulders Move your head, move your head tense your arms up, tense your arms up And then spin, and then spin When I dance I keep it PG rated Even though I know you want to see me naked Now you can't concentrate for the rest of the song Grant Damon on the bed with no clothes on One night heaven, then introduce me to your mom But then you see me dance and the attraction is gone I'm pretty awful, I know that y'all But dancing badly is half the fun

What's that? What you got? Rats on rats on rats Got rats in front my home They squeak when I walk to the door Why won't you leave me alone I just want to go home They run they sprint they dart Any time it's after dark Gotta take back my sidewalk But I don't know where to start Got rats on rats on rats Got trash on trash on trash Got bins got buckets got bags Outside the doors it's stacked That's why I got them rats Dunno what my neighbors do They throw out so much food And the bags always split in two And the rats smell that like "ooh" And the people down the street I think they bring their trash to me Let's make it so he can't see Through his window to the street And they call the trash men like Moses Say pass that building over Gonna make those tenants homeless cause the rats are gonna take over And they go down to the subway And they trap some rats in a cage And they feed them human flesh Until the rats develop a taste And they feed them steroids and creatine And and inject them all with rabies And they do top-secret testing Till the rats are the size of babies

I'm gonna be a real hip dad, with the guitar, black and white band photographs hung in the garage, the college friends who accidentally teach my kids the smell of pot, though I rock a steady job and a side part, and by the way, sidebar, I already have a side part, my fault, have to try harder to be hip Ellison, Rinehart. Yeah, that's hip dad stuff, fine art, but make it less fine, more like Lethem and Shteyngart, style off, wearing cargo shorts in the summer, I'll say it's hard getting adjusted to the suburbs. Most hip dads really grew up in the suburbs, hip dads love the city, but hip dads aren't of it. Technology fads, hip dads aren't above it, on their iPads reading stuff white people like - I love it. Huh, there's so much that my kids have to learn, Talk incessantly about my generation's David Byrne or Joe Strummer, who's my generation's Clash? Fuck it, who's their generation's Grant? My swagger wagon, yeah, that's my minivan, blasting Sufjan Stevens, going easy on the gas, Go Diego DVD playing in the back, head to tee-ball, gymnastics, soccer or art class, snacks stuck between the seats, fingerprints on the glass, NPR on the preset yo, settle down in the back! Hip dads listen to the national and band of horses, bad at basketball but they kick ass at horse, don't demand or enforce but inspire, hip dads are sarcastic, but hip dads aren't liars, when hip dads are granddads hip dads will retire to be writers, some hip dads are already writers, all hip dads are readers, bedside storytimers, when the kids are in bed, hip dads watch the wire, hip dads are likely new york timers, not forbes, but pitchfork readers, graphic designers, advertisers, website websiters, not loud about sports but for their team, they're lifers, not out of control, but for their kids, they're fighters. And sometimes they're pirates or airplane pilots or giants, hip dads kill spiders or save the lives of spiders, hip dads do what's required Hip dads will get told by their kids, dad stop it, cause when they have teenagers, hip dads are not hip. You knew the kids would be ungrateful on the day you bought in, but its still hard to take, wanna let them know you got them, send them to their room til you figure out how to talk to them, like kid, I'm with you, I was hip too, I was mad too, I was pissed off at my dad too. I wasn't hip to it then, but now I know he had to help me be more than just hip, but be a man too, or... Hip dads in mini vans get down, hip dads, hip dads in mini vans get down Hip dads in mini vans get down, hip dads, hip dads in mini vans get down all my hip dads riding dirty in the minivan ads

My rap either panders or isn't friendly to the user, not a throwback but I got no future, God save me no sex and no pistols, super-clean Saint Grant issuing epistles, super-long, Clarissa, fuck Samuel Richardson, I'm being realistic, like fuck getting bigger, son. Did a couple shows with my coworkers holding down, did they feel obligated? probably, but stop it now. All that really matters is I'm living out my fantasy, shouting out lyrics as they point their fingers back at me. Have some drinks, then you should have a couple more drinks, then it won't be boring standing while I'm performing. A couple songs and my confidence is soaring, then I lose my voice, lose the words, lose my place, lose my breath, lose the audience, now I'm lost on stage. I could walk away, but that's kinda missing the point, I'm not in it for the fame, I'm in it for the fun, if you let yourself love things then the thrill is never done, what you can't do for cash you still can do for fun. If you want to be a rockstar, don't bother. I tried that, my best fans are your friend's fathers. I got farther than I thought but it gets harder. When the concepts run out you gotta rap and I'm really kind of awful. Yeah, okay, I'm full of shit, mega-ultra talented, how you do that artistic cubicle drone balancing? Give up playing shows if you wanna keep all your friends, and you can never do new songs or the energy's gonna end, go and give up on the blogs cause you don't really have a choice, give up alcohol but you'll still probably lose your voice. Noice. I don't mean to whine but I don't mean to brag either. Critically reviled? No. Ever reviewed? Neither. Subgenre: awkwardly quote LCD and Weezer. Let's see you explain that to people at a law school mixer. Sound like a tween but I gripe like a senior, I know it looks good to try but the grass is always greener Who got booed off the stage back at Arlene's? Time to leave by the time you decide you want to start things. Give up. Sisy-Fush Yu Mang fifth grade Steve Harwell, MCA and Mike D crank calling Carvel, too many rappers acting badass but they don't start well, but I came out strong with a fucking awesome hard sell, I don't got a thick skin, I don't got a hard shell, I can't take criticism but you don't get it? ah, well. Steve Harwell pre-Shrek with Greg Camp, yeah I got that All-Star Mystery Men swag. Hashtag rap, annotated, open up, mind-blowing stuff if you set your expectations low enough Is it all that bad on this album I didn't grow enough, Master class professor, I should get credit for showing up. I could say my name a bunch, not even rap and show you up, with your dad's Facebook friends, fair to say i'm blowing up

I send this song out to Pluto/ Who? You know, Pluto/ lost its planet status because it's smaller than the moon, yo/ It's cool though/ and by that I mean it's too cold/ negative three-eighty in its orbit in the boondocks/ It's ice and rocks/ its orbit's nice and long/ two-forty-eight Earth years to go once around the sun/ poor dwarf planet living in the Kuiper belt/ dreaming of being Venus so that all its ice can melt/ but time will tell/ we've got a robot on a mission/ NASA's New Horizons is coming to take some pictures/ But when I count my planets now, Pluto, there's something missing/ the hottest cold non-planet in the whole solar system: you. IAU, I hate you, I memorized nine planets in the sky, thank you, I don't think the heavens need to be revised, what I do know. Hold firm to my heart first earth, then Pluto. Other outer planets are toxic and crushing. Your atmosphere is practically nothing. You were laid bare by their huffing and puffing bout gas giants full of hot air, you said nothing. Even as all the suits talked deplanetization, you continued revolutions, carried on your rotation, patience, you got that in spades, but they treat you like a dog, Disney animation. Seventy six years, you hit your expiration. Again, patience, my friend, just patience. When your orbit comes around, they'll come around, just wait. 4.5 billion years old, what's 248. You know those times you're closer to us than Neptune, that's when I would step to 'em, tell 'em you object to 'em tell 'em you're the seventh planet now, so they should let you in, uh, little man, you're gonna get their respect again   named for the underworld god, you're the planets' underdog, you were swept under the rug 'cause your diameter is small. Naw, they never let the little man win, now you're on the outside looking in/ little kids'll never draw you again/ make models for science class of you again/ let me tell you that i love you, my friend/ even if earth has placed itself above you cause there were nine planets back in the day, they said they made a mistake, made some parameters now and they say that there's only eight, but where's the precedent for being made an ex-planet, where's the sending-off party, where's the severance package? You thought you'd make it through the decade, what did you know? In 06 the obits said RIP Pluto.  When I look in the night sky I don't see you, bro. That's why I write this song, in memory, pluto.

Why are you upset? Besides the guilt you feel at having basically everything and every opportunity you could want, plus the additional shame at identifying this guilt as one of the defining characteristics of one of the social groups you so frequently, with great pith and reductionist humor, put down for being predictable, what do you have to complain about? Yes, you're convinced that you probably could have been a great success at any number of endeavors, if you'd only tried a little harder, or tried at all. But you're naturally risk-averse, so you can't pretend to be surprised that you're not roughing it out in some warehouse turned salon in the great wilderness of eastern Bushwick, talking about the viewer's experience as an instance of the creation of Art with a capital A and how to use this politically to charge a fringe culture so they can more fervently talk about not believing in capitalism for reasons linked to gender, or surprised that you're not organizing service workers in the Mississippi delta middle school where you're currently teaching, again living in a sort of cooperative group house where you get feedback on a novel that doesn't use any proper nouns, probably as a slight to capitalism for reasons linked to… something, or just surprised that you don't really go to punk shows anymore. You've convinced yourself that what you're doing with your life - not just career, but all facets - is the way that you're most suited to fighting all those fights you decided were yours, the best way to employ your own, particular, formidable, rare skill set. But you can't even tell yourself you're trying hard there. Your contributions to the rare political or artistic conversation in which you participate these days are limited to the didactic, reciting remembered or misremembered facts from wikipedia or "this piece in the times," or short-witty put-downs that sometimes get laughs but don't show much other than that you read culture blogs written by stand-up comics. and misremember them. The truth is that you're slowly compromising all of the difficult ideals you once held in favor of the great standard of the middle class, comfort. You want freedom from instability, freedom from fear, so you sink further and further into something safe, even if it's not what you want or think you should want. So what do you do about it? You lecture yourself, you chastise yourself repeatedly, any moment that you're alone, day after day, until your self-confidence is non-existent and you're convinced that everyone you see around you is more self-accepting, and is more deserving of self-acceptance than your are, or at least is blissfully unaware that they're not deserving of self-acceptance, which is what you try to convince yourself is true for most people. You spend all your time angry and jealous and hopeless, having given into the idea that you're never going to respect yourself like everyone else does, so you might as well just get used to being sad. Every once in a while your need for attention leads you to share this feeling of helplessness with someone, but you're never satisfied with what they tell you, because all you want to hear is… what? that you're brilliant and that your heroic non-decisions will be remembered and celebrated with the same sense of wonder as all of your accomplishments, and all of the non-accomplishments that you totally could have made happen if you'd really wanted? Come on. Fuck you. The truth is, being self-aware, even hyper-self-aware, of all your flaws does nothing to erase them. The only way you're ever going to become that better, happier, person you maybe want to be - although I'm not convinced - is to take those flaws and do something about them. You've made yourself powerless, and you can give yourself that power back. It's not going to get better unless you get any better.

You want bragging rap, I'm not good at that Man, I really gotta play more shows You want swag rap, this is Grant rap I really gotta play more shows Cause I can't sing and I can't dance I can barely rap and I'm okay with that Give me a stage, I promise that I'll be great I really gotta play more shows Yo, Grant's self description, a self-conscious mix of Sesame Street Trap rap, and a bit of futuristic, a little Rivers Cuomo and a can of Four Loko At a party in an office, with Nabokov time to give some props yo Shout out to Gucci Mane, shout out to David Chang Shout out to Teddy Park, shout out to Eddie Huang or is it Eddie Huang, did I just say it wrong? Let's talk about Xiao Ye, man, what the fuck went wrong? I'm on that conscious rap meets broad and slapstick Mos Def-Jack Black shit, reenact the classics When you hear my lines, be kind, rewind You need a second time until you get it Unpack it like a New Critic Live big, liberally balled, James Carville (groan) Meet your mom at the mall, Robin Sparkles Those lines don't fit in the song but they're awesome Requisite Nicktoons name drop time now, Hey Arnold There are no better emcees named Grant, I am the best Metaphorically take a sword and chop off your head Lyrically put you in a coffin and rob you of your health Literally sitting in a basement and talking to myself What you doing this weekend, Grant? I'm gonna cook a bit Um, then I'm gonna write a book and shit There, it's done, do you want to take a look at it? Play another show if I don't have to book it I love you New York, but you make me get down 2ne1 on my iPod, five uptown There's so much fun in my life right now if you see the upside, then shout it out If your shitty music's substance-less and dependent on gimmicks You can get by for a while, but finally hit your limits On the internet, you don't even get your fifteen minutes And that's mostly what this is now, innit. But I'm in it for the long haul, but the listeners aren't No such thing as internet art, that kid's got a lot of heart But he's too sarcastic and can't rap to start Got no spark, dance in the dark Or at least with a strobelight This beat's outdated, 09, gotta git that rave rap going cause i,  i keep on writing, but here's what has me worrying That when you said you liked it, you didn't mean to encourage me It was just a nice thing to say, a common courtesy Besides you don't like hip-hop, so you're like hey, it works for me Then I write more lines, and you're, like what'd you do that for? It was cute the first time, but why you gotta rap more? Rule number 76: don't stay past your time College kids quoting Wedding Crashers in 2009 Graduates quoting college kids quoting Vince Vaughn in 11 Slang this: bredrin, chingoo, I never hang with my friends, man. Call all the clubs I've been in, get a show, put together a set list Then get back on stage and turn my swag up to eleven

It's the dudes back in college who crashed your talent show We were awful you can't stop us now we're back and super-old It's the low res low res low res low res And we split shit up so we run both coasts If you meet a kid from Harvard there's a tiny chance they know of the low res low res low res low res if you wanna be a badass rapper, I'ma write you off, i'ma close out the chapter, epilogue cause you always come after, click late, I'm fast action capture Telephoto lens with the super-hi res, it's the low res coming back from the dead
Back from the bay, back from our heads, back from the clouds, no concepts 12-pack and we're ready to go, used to be a thirty-rack but we're kind of getting old Kind of getting old? Have no fear. GMD still can't grow a beard. Grant and Pat are back, crack open a beer fuck your grad school, fuck your career Wanna get smashed and rap about burritos, yeah we're making news like Ely Portillo DGAF, middle fingers up like Cee-Lo Grant and Pat Half swag, half-steez yo Grant Damon, west to the east, Rivers Cuomo but less of a creep Me and my girlfriend know the best things to eat, 2 dollar falafel, cheep's holiday cocktail lounge getting hyphen, on the six train back no falling asleep Grant Damon, face of the law, Patrick McKiernan, internet god That's probably cause for alarm, dark silicon alley, bodily harm Stand back, I'll put you in prison, Patty Mac holds down the mission Did you forget all the shit you been missing Low Res, get the fuck out of our kitchen Kinda rusty but our game is the best though Blowing up your screen like J Monticello Feel jealousy like your name was Othello Ooh... hell no, hell no Used to get paid to write about science Took time off now we're breaking the silence And you'd be standing on the shoulders of giants If you rapped about dorm shit, but we're more than blocking drama, taquerias, college nonsense Shitty vodka, craig finn and getting blotto Pound another rockstar, that was our motto Two years closer to death and Two beers and I get light-headed Yeah… actually that's not true New York kids drink more than the Low Res do But we run shit in two big cities Award winners - Arthur Smithies Pat's a poet, I write chick lit I'm with the suits, Pat's with the hippies I make beats, then we both kill beats Low Res - one of the most ill things And we just used to be cool, so This summer lighting the clubs up Flying to Europe, hitting the pubs up Drinking drunks under the table, taking club drugs Wait, what? Fuck drugs, um Low Res, Pat and dude Pop Pop, magnitude Maybe a few drugs, but what's it to you Just kidding, or not, what the hell you gonna do? This spring Pat came to New York We tried to write a song, it didn't really work We drank a lot of beers, we wrote some lyrics Then we drank more beers and we went to bed That used to happen a lot in school, we'd tried to write songs and we'd just get smashed so, it still happening is cool. This unfinished song is a dope throwback Like who is the president? Still George Bush, and why did they let high schoolers on Facebook? There's a lot of kids wearing khakis and blazers, check out my new Motorola Razr Have you heard of this cool thing called Twitter? No, cause it hasn't been invented yet Why won't Facebook let you upload more than one picture? Have you heard this guy T-Pain? He sounds like Cher Get your dude to buy us some green apple vodka. Tonight we'll finally finish this song, I swear. I'm taking Latin. Fuck taking Latin. Freshman year is not that hard except for Latin. Pat takes linguistics. I take linguistics. We don't like linguistics but it's better than Latin.

This is Grant on the track and I'm killing this Trimmed down, no fat but unhealthy ill as shit Yeah, I'm villainous, that's right I'm chilling just like a bad guy Black suit, black hat, and black tie, black moustache, with my hair slicked back right Jack White with a monocle in my bad eye, Head tilted back when it's bad guy laugh time The take your dime and then tie her to the tracks guy I'm off the charts, there's no plotting on a graph My swag is like Descartes because I think therefore I swag I can't even use it all but you need more swag Give you a transfusion 'cause I bleed pure swag I got my tie on so I like your dad And I'm on your iPod like be more rad Or awesome, want those pop songs? I got 'em Post-college, what do I want songs, I'm on em I'm honest, 'cause me and myself, we're on the rocks I'm the last to rep Grant or to give myself props So if I say I got swag, you know I can back it up (Grant Damon on the track) turn that up I'll rap about having my money when I have it How when I get the paper, I'll charge shit to my plastic Then several times a day I'll go and pay back down the balance They make it automatic but it's good to know I have it For now I haven't, so I rap about that This is newspaper rap - I got facts upon facts I'm recording the reporting like I got a press pass You're just standing in the corner like a middle school dance On my middle school shit, 'cause this beat got Axed Yeah I killed it, Quicksilver cool, make you look bad Won't stop till my name is written all over your book bag No more looking back because it's time to bring the hook back

I first heard of you on messageboards, absolutepunk Everyone acting offended saying how much you suck Teenagers on Myspace acting all drunk And their words, not mine, acting like sluts Huh, I didn't know what I was missing Can't remember ever giving you a listen Then about a year ago, figured I'd check up That was good timing, that was good luck You were still dirty, still didn't care The one girl still had the giant bow in her hair But the hooks were gigantic, cups in the air Fuck pop music, it ends right there Fuck Lady Gaga, fuck going meta You were Kesha before Kesha was Kesha Sex, drugs, more sex and fun is the message No winks and no nudges, full-fledged messes, yes You're like a cartoon dancing on a bar in a dark room Body shots and treating it a lot like a bedroom Post-Madonna pop comically perfected And it also makes me want to do aerobics Picture four twenty-something guys driving through Los Angeles Singing "Stay the Night," that's my kind of masculine classic but trashy as fuck, that's a magic mix don't give a fuck, that's the attitude, adapt that shit That song's the best, but "Prom Dress" is right there "Party Like a Millionaire's" every parent's nightmare Sometimes you're scary, you might be my nightmare Fuck it, you're ahead of the game by light years Sometimes you kinda make me want to throw up But if you had a show in new york, you know I'd show up Just got paid, let's get what? Huh, don't ever give it up come get fucked up, you're one in a million don't give a fuck, you're one in a million is it me, cause all I see is best thing in music getting drunk and sloppy? your three good songs, you're one in a million

First name: waiting, last name: forever Even though they say it’s getting better, never Wanna run a query, wanna search it up https bsadirect.gov I send my love through cyberspace To the great minds who made this confusedly designed place IRS, take a look at my face, do you see a smile as I open a new case? Already negative, I anticipate the wait I’m going proactive, search with no names No violation code and a wide range of dates Subject/transactor, leave that stuff blank The results don’t even fit on one page Oh duh, I forgot to specify the state You know the system works way better late So Thursday at eight, let’s make it a date You and I in a safe, secure place Like the drawer where I lock all of my documents away We FBAR all night and SARF all day, oh, and hey, it’s all thanks to the BSA   I just logged in the system IRS and FinCEN, Filings are waiting there all for me I'm gonna read some SARs, I'm gonna read FBARs I'm gonna stop the suspicious activity I'm locked out of the system IRS and FinCEN hotline, tell me what's wrong with me Cause I try so hard, but every time I turn around, logged off how hard can it be?   On my best behavior, I don’t want to mess with these folks Sitting in West Virginia monitoring all my key strokes Don’t search for Eliot Spitzer or they’ll call you on the phone Like, “yo, you can pack your knives and go home.” Now I’m not one to brag about my FinCEN finesse, But who got cases opened up in ICMS, I guess I be the best, at finding PDFS of Activity suspiciously that not’s like the rest I’m always on the database when it gets shut down On the phone eight times a day when I get logged out I probably know the BSA warning by heart by now… “The enclosed information was collected and disseminated under provisions of the Bank Secrecy Act and U.S. Department of the Treasury regulations implementing the BSA…” I got 8300 hundred 8300s – that’s a large cash payment, in case you were wondering 10 thousand CTRs, it’s a wondrous thing Read ‘em in batches, you could call it structuring SARC casino, chips so delicious Put in too many C-notes gets you on the list and I find you in the system, then ish gets litigious So quick you could even call it suspicious So let's get started, log in to CBRS Then log right back out, 'cause you'll get locked out regardless Check your email, locked out, go to the bathroom, locked out Blink for too long, man, you probably just got locked out Take a deep breath, you're calm and you're mellow Run a new query, find a SAR and you download Review it, Second reader needed, hell no Bang bang bang out a three bullet memo Shoot it to the team, wait for John to tell you, let's go Then get your SAR a towel 'cause it's going to the SPA, bro Now I got more documents, you can watch the paper stack up Call me General Grant for the way I call for backup And you are on it, following the cheddar The ADA says it's case, let's go and get 'em You made an investigation, no one could do it better And now you're on your way to impressing Rich Weber

my girlfriend said I'm a 6.5 or a 7, talent 8, plus I'm nice, so a 9 or a 10, then, swag to eleven, intellect 12, basically your girlfriend's equivalent of seventh heaven. Last year after work, I went and wrote book, but I didn't try to sell it 'cause it wasn't all that good, no, it was pretty good I just do other things better, but you say that you're an author? My novel's probably better. You say that you're an artist? My album's probably better, plus there's nothing riding on it, I'm a hobbyist, a messer, but if I put in the effort it could be a best seller. Fly off the shelves, fly as myself, in the atmosphere like I am the weather. You could see me shine, I could make it rain, Promise all the time I won't sound this lame. It's just that to me the rap game is a game, don't care if I win 'cause I'm barely even playing. And I know my current situation's amazing, kid privilege, don't need no explaining, but though I don't care what rap money I'm making, I'll do it so well that you'll still want to pay me, hey! In three years, God willing I am gonna be a lawyer, but fuck growing up, no rush, Tom Sawyer. I'm still playing games like I sunk your destroyer, but my games are making cases that are showing up in Reuters. All right no more work talk, I sound like jerk, dog, I kinda am a jerk, but I tried being nice and that was a turnoff. So Grant, what happened, you never seemed to take off? This last year's been fast, I did a lot of rap, but I didn't change a lot, but whoa I'm Joey Lawrence, I'm starting to Blossom, all that's really happened I been even more awesome. Moved to Spanish Harlem, right near Upper East Side, now I'm officially lame as hell but no waiting for the L on late nights. I still like my New York Mag, drink high life at Whiskey Tavern, wear my Vans and Jack Spade bag and rap because I can and I still do my share of bitching but you know I do like everything, Today I had fried chicken at Momofuku thank you David Chang! I'm not ever really happy though I'm trying to there's too many things I want to do No, having so much swag is not that fun unless you realize how awesome you are This is where I'm at, I know you want it Guess I gotta act at home with all it And if I must grow up, then guess what, I guess I'm doing well I guess I'm doing fine, I do life better than you

fuck Hoodie Allen, this is rap's Woody Allen Neurotic and imbalanced, but dammit, I am so talented Living in Manhattan and I got a thing for jazz When I rap over this track, I'm What's New, Pussycat-ting it I mean What's Up, Tigerlily, yeah, that's it Miscast, but I still be the protagonist If I wrote the script, I'm sure as hell gonna act in it You say I'm crabby, no, I just got fantastic wit Sarcastic with a bit of slapstick, classic shit With honest pathos, make you feel attached to it I been living on the straight and narrow No Soon-Yi to my Mia Farrow I'm kind of square now, life is sterile But I been clawing back like George Romero I won't fade to black now, uh uh, hell no Grant Damon on the track, second act now, let's go Upper East Side, 2010 summer Look up in the sky, I'm a star, fuckers Party all night, number one stunna In the spotlight, I'm a star, fuckers it's your mom's favorite rapper I mean that in the non-sexual sense, she said it's too bad there's only one of me depressed version of what she wants her son to be I make her proud, you go out and have more fun than me It sucks to be the good son now, lucky me So I bring the yucks, bring myself down funnily I am making fun of me so you won't do it Defensive, I perpetually feel like the new kid Act aloof so that I don't look stupid How do you do it, both comfortable and lucid? And if I loosen up, here's the next bad thing: Don't want to be a part of any club that would have me Now I'm getting bored, could you call me a cab, please? Or put me on the four, I can make my way back, eat some yogurt, watch the office, click through photos, read a book and fall asleep - yeah, it's a Grant thing I am dressed right, I can crunch numbers Suit and a tie, I'm a star, fuckers Who is that guy? They wanna get my number That's right, I'm a star, fuckers At my GF's request bought myself some new dress shoes Now I look dope when I'm sitting at my desk, dude I took a vote and I think I got the best cube But only one screen, that's three less two I kill at spreadsheets, yeah, I excel at 'em I tell the best jokes, get it excel, and my humor is a desert Or desert with two s's, you won't get it till you finish your vegetables and reflected I stretched that metaphor until it kinda got wretched But I'm dry and pretty great, yeah I think that was the message Um, if I'm greater, that would make you less than That awkwardness would prevent us from being best friends So let's just call it for what it really is I'm killing this and you're passively just listening in Yeah let's call it for what it really are The world does revolve around me, cause I'm a fucking star 6, 4, 5 - those are my numbers On the green line, I'm a star, fuckers I am too bright, everyone's dumber So I'll say it twice, I'm a star, fuckers I'm a star Near or far In a plane or a car In a box, with a fox Diagnosed with the pox holy fuck, holey socks On the block with sidewalk chalk On a yacht with Tupac and Derek Bok Blasting cock rock with lacrosse high school jocks Hearing talks by a post-doc on Philip Roth and Saul Bellow Swede Levov versus Moses Herzog Oh, God.