Reheated Pop!

[Busdriver] Buy my posthumous full-length My colorfully packaged disembodied shriek Converted to ring tones used in car ads Sung by winged gnomes over the head of Dick Clark Cover pages graced by the chiseled hard abs Of this now charred slab of dead pop diva Recreated as the head of Biz Mark Spliced on top of Hello Kitty On a virtual land mass with a hip-kink It’s lip-synched to my song and committed to telecine And the nothing left of me is left to bask in a camera flash I’ve never been so successful 'till I died And my label wished my heavenly chariot Pre-board defunct I didn’t die in a hail of gunfire I died doing extreme sports at a resort On a bungee cord on a ski jump No need to ask how a dead rapper can be a label's cash cow They just record me months before on G-funk string chords Add an R&B chorus Hit a keyboard key to punch Even though I'm dead I was booked on a fortnight To exhaust notes dressed like a cockroach Now I'm cooked and ate with a fork and knife As your reheated pop sensation I'm framed under a caption reading "prog-rap" And given open-handed god smacks By partisan zealots who not only think I draft-dodged Iraq But that my back catalog is wack And for it I should be flogged and smacked But little do they know I'm dead already And their complaints are small and petty My autopsy was broadcast and shot on a webcam I'm a dead man with golden blood in my bedpan But still my pop song climbs And you can buy it when you shop online Prop my lifeless body up next to the podium as I accept applause I'm an award-winning dead dude With a tour pending and a celebrity love interest I signed a movie deal to play a starring role The film crew doesn't even suspect I'm dead I'm your own martyr I'm dead but don't unplug my phone charger