It ain't my real hair It ain't my real name It's just my p.r. It ain't my real fame Now ya' see it but ya' think you don't You gonna buy it but ya' think you won't Image imagine, electric facade It's a trip, chip, clip of your wallet, honey Gotcha... you need that style 60-year-old investors 45-year-old boss 30-year-old shop owners 15-year-old consumers being massaged By a worldwide industrialized computerized mirage We've learned no style sells Free-style as well To the best-dressed self-obsessed people in hell Cuz life ain't made of the stuff you got And the cross ain't sellin' where the cattle shop Gotcha... you need that style It's the price of hype Down to the store-bought smile And the price was right It only cost ya' your life honey Gotcha... you need that style!