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Club Privilege

from Instinctive Drowning by Chris Orrick

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lyrics

VERSE Walk in the club like I own it/That looks pretty cool, don't it?/I did not get the pat down/Pants sagging, hats to the back now/They say pimping ain't easy/But I'm fly like G-Eazy/Bitch got me all fucked up/Fuck a bar line, I take cuts/Tell the bartender my turn/Looking like Audrey Hepburn /I'm feeling like Frank Sinatra/Two shots of your best vodka/One for me and one for you/They complaining the waits long/I look back like "oh poor you"/'m the shit, is that so wrong? CHORUS I wear the clothes that I want/ drink the booze that I want/In this club/I play the songs that I want/I get whatever I want VERSE Don't you ask for my ID/I don't need no fucking ID/Matter of fact I'm VIP/You can't fuck with the white tee/And you can't fuck with my Nikes /I give a fuck if you like me/I talk shit and I like fights/Freedom of speech, bitch, it's my right/Push my way up to the front/Don't you tell me I'm too drunk/Go on and pour me up two more/Fuck are they waiting on you for?/I deserve the good service/And that service better perfect/They treat me better than you 'cuz.../Well I'm better than you, bruh CHORUS I wear the clothes /That I want/I drink the booze that I want/In this club/I play the songs that I want/I get whatever I want BRIDGE (Marsha Mann:) Why don't I pour you a drink?/You look tired/And life is so unfair/ (Red Pill:) I don't need no fucking ID/I don't need no fucking ID/Matter of fact I'm VIP/Matter of fact I'm VIP/I don't need no fucking ID/I don't need no fucking ID/Matter of fact I'm VIP/My skin tone match my white tee CHORUS I wear the clothes /That I want/I drink the booze that I want/In this club/I play the songs that I want/I get whatever I want BRIDGE I get whatever I want/I dress however I want/I go wherever I want/I live whenever I want BRIDGE (Marsha Mann:) Why don't I pour you a drink?/You look tired/And life is so unfair.

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from Instinctive Drowning, released August 26, 2016

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Chris Orrick Detroit, Michigan

Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar MC writes spiteful chants for the permanently scarred, death letters for the forgotten, surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. ... more

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