I D M
F.
A.
M.
If you ain’t fam… you prey.
(Verse 1 – direct hits)
We the ones that crushed the algorithm’s head,
Y’all just DMed Squarepusher and got left on read.
WATMM cryin, “Did Autekra mean this?”
No, they meant shut up and stop suckin their dicks.
Reddit’s on some shit like “What’s your favorite DAW?”
I use whatever makes me sound like a god.
You use Reason? Cute. I use pain and collapse,
Layered in Re noise with surgical slaps.
We post fire, you post rules,
I built a track so sick it dropped outta school.
Got that glitch-hop stutter, that Venetian snare,
You got “ambient pad” and a blank stare.
(Hook – hard as hell)
I.D.M. F.A.M. — fuck your threads and your clout,
We don’t chase likes, we knock modems out.
Reddit heads beggin for a repost prayer,
While I summon Burial from thin fuckin air.
This is bloodsport beats, ain’t no time for your tears,
We press play and erase your last five years.
(Verse 2 – names dropped like corpses)
Aphex ain’t your daddy, he ain’t readin your rants,
He’s out back pissin on your Bitwig plants.
Y’all still beggin Plaid to like your page,
I’m over here collabin with Death Grips in a cage.
Gearslutz got pics of a $10k chain,
But still can’t EQ a snare with half a brain.
Deadmau5 flexin but that shit’s so clean,
I want filth like I’m draggin a breakbeat through a latrine.
Yo, shoutout Squarepusher — king of the freaks,
But WATMM tryin to clone him every damn week.
Y’all chase Warp Records like they owe you clout,
Meanwhile we got B-sides they never put out.
(Bridge – whispered then screamed)
Reddit… soft.
WATMM… lost.
Slutz… bought.
I.D.M.f. … GOD.
(Verse 3 – pure venom)
You bought Omnisphere? I modded the code.
You bought monitors? I cracked the mode.
You paid for clout — I bled for sound,
IDMf — we bury beats underground.
I been banned from forums for too much bass,
Had mods shittin bricks when I entered the place.
Your fav producer? Just a ghost in the cloud,
I’m the one they jackin when the Wi-Fi’s down.
(Final Hook – blow the roof off)
I.D.M. F.A.M. — fuck the safe space wave,
We the glitch in your serum, the kick in your grave.
You want synths? We want scars.
You want hearts? We leave bars.
This the F.A.M. — you don’t get in with posts,
You get in with flames and you haunt these hosts.
(Outro – datamosh breakdown)
Names dropped.
Forums rocked.
Beats cocked.
No gods. Just mods.
R.I.P. … the clout era.