There’s a smirk behind this one. You can feel it in the hook of “tongue in cheek,” the latest release from Eliza Prymak. “Got my tongue in his cheek like a joke to laugh at” plays with irony, and it’s both clever and bitter. She’s calling out the way everything feels like a setup, like the universe is making a joke and she’s the punchline.
She leans into that feeling. “My baby runs wild in the Midwest, he gets so high” sounds dreamy, almost soft, but it sits next to “gangsta process in the stu, do you get the vibe?”—and that’s the point. She doesn’t lay out a timeline. It drifts instead—loose details, broken scenes, mood first, meaning later. What sounds like poetry is really burnout, stretched long enough that it starts to look intentional.
Eliza’s not new to this. She trained in classical voice, studied jazz guitar, and now she’s writing her own shit at Belmont. That kind of range doesn’t just give her polish—it gives her options. She can pull from Lana’s drama, Amy’s grit, Charli’s chaos, Tommy Genesis’s sex, Ariana’s gloss. And when she says “my baby runs wild in the Midwest, he gets so high”—you can hear the Lana in that.
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The mood’s nocturnal. Fucked-up. Intimate. A little stoned. She’s driving home at sunrise, mascara smudged, playing “drug rap on the drive home—it feels so right.” That line caught me. There’s always something about that moment—the music you play after, the silence between bodies still hot. It’s the come-down, the ache, the why-does-this-feel-holy moment. And she doesn’t try to dress it up. She just breathes through it.
She says, “I wrote this song about how it feels like God is writing my story with his tongue in his cheek.” So yeah, she’s talking about fate and irony and all the shit that makes a girl feel cursed and powerful at the same time. But she also flips it. Got my tongue in his cheek? That’s possession, like when you know you could call him “God” and he’d say “thank you.”
That verse hits hard: “Face down, ass fat, still young, broke, and bougie.”
Tell me that isn’t the most Gen Z prayer you’ve ever heard. It’s funny until you realize it’s a survival mantra. She’s not whining—she’s making a joke out of her own position, because humor is control. “Gotta be a joke with the way it happened to me.”
She’s chasing fame and way past the point of playing nice. “Got a shit ton of tracks but they still won’t do me.” The way she says that is almost bitter. But she doesn’t dwell. She throws it away like a line she’s said too many times. Just enough to get the point across. Then she’s back to the hustle—“guess we on the right path if we shaking some ass.”
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That one stings, doesn’t it? The casual acknowledgment that half this industry won’t hear a woman unless she’s got skin in the game—literally. But Eliza weaponizes it. “Slow burn going, trusting God with the task.” She’ll fuck around and let you think she’s submissive. But she’s the one calling the shots.
I love how she sharpens it in the final stretch. “Straight to the point—you won’t forget how you knew me.” The whole track operates like that. It leaves marks.
She’s got venom in that swagger—“you don’t like it? You can sue me.” She’s not here for soft apologies or subtle shade. She’s too good for that. You get one shot, and if you waste it, she won’t even look at you when she wins. “All the lames act like I ain’t worth what I am.” But they know. They smell the guap coming. They hear her confidence hit the floor harder than any beat.
And underneath this fucked-up, funny, horny, hurting pop-jazz-glam mashup, she keeps swinging back to that hook: “Got my tongue in his cheek like a joke to laugh at.” That’s the energy she moves with. Wry. Sharp. A little detached, but fully aware.
