Reheated Pop! - Busdriver

Buy my posthumous full-length

My colorfully packaged disembodied shriek

Converted to ring tones used in car ads

Sung by winged gnomes over the head of Dick Clark

Cover pages graced by the chiseled hard abs

Of this now charred slab of dead pop diva

Recreated as the head of Biz Mark

Spliced on top of Hello Kitty

On a virtual land mass with a hip-kink

It’s lip-synched to my song and committed to telecine

And the nothing left of me is left to bask in a camera flash

I’ve never been so successful 'till I died

And my label wished my heavenly chariot

Pre-board defunct

I didn’t die in a hail of gunfire

I died doing extreme sports at a resort

On a bungee cord on a ski jump

No need to ask how a dead rapper can be a label’s cash cow

They just record me months before on G-funk string chords

Add an R&B chorus

Hit a keyboard key to punch

Even though I’m dead

I was booked on a fortnight

To exhaust notes dressed like a cockroach

Now I’m cooked and ate with a fork and knife

As your reheated pop sensation

I’m framed under a caption reading «prog-rap»

And given open-handed god smacks

By partisan zealots who not only think I draft-dodged Iraq

But that my back catalog is wack

And for it I should be flogged and smacked

But little do they know I’m dead already

And their complaints are small and petty

My autopsy was broadcast and shot on a webcam

I’m a dead man with golden blood in my bedpan

But still my pop song climbs

And you can buy it when you shop online

Prop my lifeless body up next to the podium as I accept applause

I’m an award-winning dead dude

With a tour pending and a celebrity love interest

I signed a movie deal to play a starring role

The film crew doesn’t even suspect I’m dead

I’m your own martyr

I’m dead but don’t unplug my phone charger