[Intro: spoken, karaoke host on a cheap mic, bar noise] Next name on the sheet is our regular Y'all know him from the comments [Verse 1: cocky male MC, grinning] I run the karaoke Thursdays at a bar called the Low Tide Two-drink minimum, sticky floor, a fog machine that died Same dude every week, signs the sheet in capital letters Same dude that spends his workday typin' how the old way was better Says real music gotta bleed, and he types it from a recliner Only blood that boy ever spilled was ketchup at a diner Swears a song ain't real unless a person played every part Then he slides me a slip, I press a button, and he sings it from the heart Not a drummer in the building, not a bass player in sight Just a laptop and a cable and a man who knows he's right [Hook: cocky male MC] All week you're nothin' but words on a screen Typin' "that ain't real" with your hands real clean Thursday night you can't open your mouth till the words turn green Singin' somebody else's song to a track from a machine [Verse 2: cocky male MC, meaner] Watch him grip the mic with his eyes on the bouncin' ball Can't find his second verse without the TV on the wall I knock the key down two steps so his voice don't crack That's a computer holdin' your hand, and you never typed thanks back Auto-scroll, auto-key, a click track countin' four You cuss the crutch all week, then you limp in through the door You call it cheatin' when it's ours and a good time when it's yours That's a man who hates the elevator ridin' it to every floor And don't think I ain't seen you in the lot after close Mouthin' every word to the song you called fake in your post [Hook: cocky male MC] All week you're nothin' but words on a screen Typin' "that ain't real" with your hands real clean Thursday night you can't open your mouth till the words turn green Singin' somebody else's song to a track from a machine [Bridge: spoken, karaoke host, music drops to bass and kick] Quick note from the booth I made a custom lyrics file for our regular Words by him. All of 'em. Every one Everybody grab a mic [Flow switch: triplet flow, tamborzao slams back heavier] I hit play and up come his comments, green line after line "That ain't music," sixty drunks, and every one of 'em on time "Ain't no soul in it," the bartender found the harmony "No struggle, no story," bachelorettes wailin' like a eulogy "A box can't feel," and the bowlin' league is bawlin' in the booth Singin' his lies off a screen and sellin' 'em like truth That's the realest shit this bar has ever heard And I didn't write a note. I just borrowed every word [Final Hook: cocky male MC, laughing] Tonight you're nothin' but words on a screen Sixty drunks sing your comments, and they sing 'em clean Turned your hate into a hook the second it turned green Now you're a song somebody else sang to a track from a machine [Outro: spoken, karaoke host] Give it up for our regular He'll be back next Thursday He always is [End]
