Award Show Songtext
von Astronomy Class

Fake smiles, fake tans, fake tits
Every year the same pricks
Shake hands with the pre-set publicist
Half a gram in the bathroom, déjà vu
Already done this shit couple of times, now I got the gist
"Oh yeah, my name′s Scribe, it should be there on the list"
Three drinks in hand, not sure where to sit 'cause
I don′t know where I fit in, now think about it
They call it urban but we call it hip-hop
Supposed to be the soundtrack to the revolution

Don't be confusin' the plaques with the art
Or strangers opinions with matters of the heart
From Elephant Tracks baby, to the very last
Me and Sullo and Rose Forty emptying a glass, aha
Just tryna make sense of the madness
Two seats away from James Matheson′s dandruff


While I′m stuck outside with them sophisticated fucks
It looks like they spent some bucks, must be the rental tux
Lock the arenas and get a limo from the carpark
It's easier for teeny boppers see who the stars are
Roast strikes a pose for photographers
I think it′s likely they're not gonna bother us
But hey, here′s an idea to save the day
I'll push it in a frame with Fraize and Jay McRae
Nothing unusual is grief from security
Seems that this flashy gold pass is no immunity

I let ′em see the ticket that cost me some hard-earned
To make it back I'll make the barkeep do hard work
I'll make a beeline for friendly faces, beer and chasers
Then it′s take your places, flashing lights and lasers
And you′d expect the food to be hot shit
But we had to go and get some hot chips

I don't care what people say
All these parties feel the same
Talk is cheap with free champagne
The stars are out tonight

Yo, cartel zhuzhy, the club looks cushy
There′s valet parking but they won't park my pushy
Afterparty in full swing, VIP full bling
See ID? Me? Bullshit
Same beer, same chicks, yeah, same Idol finalists
These parasites and biters with brand name clothes to hide it
Old rockers that are way past retirement
I ain′t buyin' it, I′m out, but three beers won't keep me down


Yo, keep it down Battler, you're freakin′ out
Jean Phantom′s in my ear, both Minogues in the rear
This the party of the year if there's metal in your hand
If not, blame the judges, they′ll never understand
True lyrical genius, I spit like Gabriela Cilmi
Round the back of the bleachers, nothing sweet about me either
Musical meat cleaver, awards show sceptic
Swimming through the cesspit, why?

I don't care what people say
All these parties feel the same
Talk is cheap with free champagne
The stars are out tonight