I got a band, we clock dough
they play the strings, I play the role
me remington, my game's no con
each member of the band a son of a gun
there's a bond between us, that we can trust
in music how to use it, each man is a boss
our aim, yeah, we entertain to gain
a place maybe in the hall of fame
if we don't reach this, the world is to blame
'cos you know how it goes, again and again.

I mean, I make a record, a single
if it sells, some money in my pocket tingles
then I make a move for a longplay record
I got talent enough to make a second
megabucks may be earned if I score
my succes comes after a year or more
depends, how many customers walk in the door
one thing is sure, I drop on the floor - dead
living in fame, little I had
but people and critics in the biz are impressed
of my death, so make an album 'the best of rudeboy's raps'
twice as much money behind my back
now that's fame too late to get
'cos you're famous when you're dead

You wanna rhyme ? yeah ? get in the line !
but remember nine to five is the job you find
for the dough we weren't told about tinseltime
but whatever I recite, you can give it a try
exceptions prove the rule when it comes to be fly
me as a rudeboy that's why I get by
a gucci watch, hey, and a fly gold chain
some sneakers to keep my feet dry from the rain
but it's a strain
what have I gained
really nothing big, I can't live in the fastlane

Suppose I make it, what does it mean ?
driving a fast car, machine-clean
goldplated, expensive dinner 'stead of beans
dizzed by the critics, praised by teens
recognition in the end, so it seems
you're plundered from your royalties by those thieves
who used to grease the skids while dizzing you deep
now they fake it, when they try to weep
like a familyscene, they all just wish it
to bury your body and they won't miss it
world is like a wife who is wicked
if she inherits, then you know her real spirit
can't have it all, only some credit
when you're history there will be a special edit
it reads: enemies are your friends in the end
yes, everybody loves you when you're dead
you're famous when you're dead

9 a.m. again, I wake up
with a cold-shower breakfast, time for pop
then I will be in the mood for some lyrical rock
so I pop in a tape in my deck, scott la rock
superstar status he never lacked
but the words of mouth were final on wax
the extravagant life came to an end
because a nine millimeter in his block went bang
now he's a hero in the musical ranks
some feel lost, some feel bad
some act like they were his best friends
now, those hypocrits really make me mad
famous when you're dead.