/Ay’ Mr. Pitiful, so it’s not about syllables/ Dope cadence or a flow that’s original/ Rather talk swag in your interviews with jewels that’s expendable/ To people that find you dispensable/ You, you, that plays the foil to me/ That steps in the name of royalties/ Pennies on the dollar for every unit sold/ And we haven’t even factored the advance you owe/ Oh, you think Timbaland come cheap?/ That’s like 100K for a Neptune beat/ Fees for the singers, fees for the mixing/Promo to radio to get your single a spinning/ Cash for threads, kicks, and then your bitch/ The crew, some whips, and maybe a crib/ Jocker's on your dick, like I got dibs/ Like now your mother sow with some milky tits/


/So there’s your John Henry, and what’d you get for it?/ Besides the notion the first week is important/ Don’t deliver on Sound-scan, the label ignores ya/ And in comes the pity parade for your performance/ The advance money is a thing of your past/ Reviews say your life’s work was a waste of their cash/ Label sparked beef just to spice up your hype/ Then he leaks a response and murders you on the mic/ You think ain’t right tho, getting played like Tyco/ Buzz losing weight like fat broads getting lypo’/ Caught by TMZ, getting thrown out a club/ Skated on the tab and they gave ya the rub/ On Myspace now, selling drops for cash/ For three hundred a pop you’ll put their tape on blast/ The IRS claiming you withheld on returns/ And there you were thinking you had money to burn/