Lyrics
PAY UP, SUCKER
[Explicit]

[Intro — rhythmic chant, bass building]
Big talk! Small print!
Whole damn room knows who owes this!
Big smile! Bad check!
Pay up, sucker—show some respect!

[Verse 1 — aggressive, tightly rhythmic]
You booked that room, I packed that floor,
Sweat ran black through the shirt I wore.
Two blown speakers, no backstage fan,
Still had the crowd eating out of my hand.
You stood by the door with a fistful of cash,
Counting those twenties while I hauled my stacks.
Said next week, then the week went past—
Funny how your phone got quiet that fast.

Fuck your excuses, your payroll glitch,
Saw your new rims in your latest clip.
Bottle in your hand with a sparkler lit,
While I’m checking my bank like a goddamn bitch.
Nah—fuck that, pull the numbers up,
Every sold-out ticket, every plastic cup.
I know what we signed, what you said, what’s due,
And the only shit missing is the money from you.

You wanted that noise, wanted boots on the stage,
Wanted my whole damn heart for a handshake wage.
Now the lights came down and the crowd went home—
But you still owe me every fucking dollar I’m owed.

[Chorus — huge shouted hook]
PAY UP, SUCKER! WHERE’S MY CUT?
You got yours—quit fucking us!
BIG-TALK, CHEAP-ASS MOTHERFUCKER!
Same old line? Go find another!
PAY UP, SUCKER! COUNT THAT CASH!
“Next week” can kiss my ass!
Ran that mouth, now back it up—
PAY! UP! SUCKER! WHERE’S MY CUT?

[Verse 2 — sneering, bouncy delivery]
Graphic girl did your flyer for free,
Said you’d put her name where the crowd could see.
Cropped that shit when you posted the art,
Then bragged online how you built it from scratch.
Sound guy waited till a quarter past two,
Rolling up cables while you slid through.
Bartender’s short and the drummer’s pissed—
Whole fucking crew on your “next week” list.

Everybody got that same damn text,
Same fake panic, same vague threat.
Same little speech about paying your dues—
We paid ’em all. Now the due one’s you.
You sell big dreams from a rented desk,
Got “CEO” tattooed on your fucking chest.
Ten gold chains and a repo call,
Man, that cheap-ass throne’s gonna fold and fall.

Keep that exposure, I’ve had enough,
Can’t fill my tank with a thumbs-up, bud.
Can’t buy groceries with your fucking clout,
So take that offer and shove it back in your mouth.

[Chorus — full force]
PAY UP, SUCKER! WHERE’S MY CUT?
You got yours—quit fucking us!
BIG-TALK, CHEAP-ASS MOTHERFUCKER!
Same old line? Go find another!
PAY UP, SUCKER! COUNT THAT CASH!
“Next week” can kiss my ass!
Ran that mouth, now back it up—
PAY! UP! SUCKER! WHERE’S MY CUT?

[Bridge — half-time, stomping group chant]
Fuck your promise! Fuck your grin!
Fuck that date you changed again!
Hours worked! Names attached!
Every fucking cent—exact!

No more favors! No free rides!
Everybody on this bill gets paid tonight!
Kick drum! Hands up!
Whole damn room yelling—WHERE’S MY CUT?

[Verse 3 — relentless, triumphant]
We compared those texts in the parking lot,
Found out quick what a scheme you got.
You kept us apart with the same old pitch,
Now we’re all in the room and you’re looking sick.
Bass player’s got every date in ink,
Sound guy saved every payment link.
You’re scrolling hard, trying to find some spin,
But your own damn words keep boxing you in.

First came charm, then the wounded pride,
Then you blamed some kid you had working inside.
Then the old bank app that you swore wouldn’t load
Worked real fucking quick when we wouldn’t go.
One phone chimes, then another lights,
Watch that swagger drain out of your eyes.
Count it again, make the last cent match—
Nobody cheers till the whole crew’s paid back.

I take my cut, put it straight toward rent,
Fill up the truck with the rest I’ve got left.
Buy the crew breakfast at a quarter past ten—
Then we book our own show. You ain’t invited again.

[Final chorus — massive, layered vocals]
PAY UP, SUCKER! WHERE’S MY CUT?
You got yours—quit fucking us!
BIG-TALK, CHEAP-ASS MOTHERFUCKER!
Same old line? Go find another!
PAY UP, SUCKER! COUNT THAT CASH!
“Next week” can kiss my ass!
Every last name, every last buck—
PAY! UP! SUCKER! YOU DON’T OWN US!

[Outro — rhythmic chant, hard final stop]
Lights out! Load up!
Everybody here got their cut!
Big talk! Tough luck!
PAY UP, SUCKER—
WE DON’T WORK FOR FUCK-ALL!