[Hook: smug baritone male lead, crowd shouts "spit!", dark choir stabs] Spit it in the bucket (spit!), then you lick it off the table Scored it ninety-eight blind, then you read the fuckin' label Nothin' wrong with the taste, sir. You just hate who made it Spit it in the bucket (spit!). Everybody else? They drank it [Verse 1: smug, unhurried] You swirl a song like a Cabernet, nose all up in the glass "Notes of struggle, hints of pain, a finish full of class" That ain't a palate. That's a background check in a bow tie You ain't tastin' nothin'. You just checkin' who to glorify Want a barn on the label and a broke old man in a hat Want the vintage and the village and the van they wrote it at If it didn't bleed in a basement, then Your Highness won't approve You'd spit your favorite record out if it showed up in a different suit You don't listen with your ears. You listen with a guest list Turn the music down to read the credits, and you never hear the rest of it [Hook] Spit it in the bucket (spit!), then you lick it off the table Scored it ninety-eight blind, then you read the fuckin' label Nothin' wrong with the taste, sir. You just hate who made it Spit it in the bucket (spit!). Everybody else? They drank it [Verse 2: the strings get nastier] Friday at the tastin', little room, the purists in a row Turtlenecks and bow ties, all the ones who "knew it years ago" Host poured a flight of four, every label in a sock Glass three hit your tongue, and your little knees started to knock I got your card right here. Let me read it back to you [Flow switch: triple-time, readin' your own notes back to you] "Notes of a widower, notes of a diner, a whiskey in winter, a pew and a prayer Tannins of truth and a finish of gravel, it lingers like smoke in a grandmother's hair" That's your handwritin'. Ninety-eight. You underlined "honest" twice. You were there Host pulled the sock off. Saw who made it. Watched your whole face break And you spit it in the bucket like your mouth was full of snakes [Beat Switch: drums drop to one long pour and a low choir hum, then slam back] [Verse 3: double-time, cocky] Look around the room, though. Everybody else is pourin' seconds Dancin' on the chairs while you sittin' there writin' lessons You thought you was the gate. Turns out you was a sign on the lawn Everybody walked around you, and the party's still goin' on Keep your little bucket, keep your bow tie, keep your score I ain't pourin' for the critic, man. I'm pourin' for the floor [Final Hook: full choir stabs] Spit it in the bucket (spit!), then you lick it off the table Scored it ninety-eight blind, then you read the fuckin' label Nothin' wrong with the taste, sir. You just hate who made it Spit it in the bucket (spit!). Everybody else? They drank it [Outro: one choir stab, a glass set down hard, the beat stops dead] [End]
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