Still Talkin’, Still Ain’t Shit

Yeah…

Texas-made, motherfucker.

You still talkin’? Cool.

All fuckin’ year you hoes ran your mouths like cardio,

Same weak-ass takes, no grind, no audio.

Twelve months bitchin’, not a goddamn thing built,

I stacked through the noise, you soaked in your guilt.

You prayed I’d slip, crack, fold, or fall,

I slow-rolled pressure, candy paint, fuck y’all.

End of the year, same clowns, same chatter,

I moved weight and plans — you moved fuckin’ laughter.

Fake-ass partners dap me up then talk slick,

Smile in my face, turn around on some bitch shit.

You gossip like hoes in a broke-ass circle,

Bond over hate ‘cause your lives feel purple.

Say my name more than your goals get chased,

Obsessed with my moves ‘cause you stuck in place.

If talk was work you’d finally be paid,

But you allergic to effort, addicted to shade.

End of the year, still breathin’, still stuntin’,

You ran your mouth all year — still fuckin’ nothin’.

Second Shift Samurai, Texas drawl venom,

Y’all stayed talkin’ shit — I stayed fuckin’ winnin’.

Skinny-mouth clown think loud equals rank,

But volume don’t build shit — just funk and stank.

Big ego, no motion, just fumes and air,

I coast through pressure, you freeze and stare.

Y’all group-chat hatin’ like it pays a fee,

I don’t need a crowd — I’m the main marquee.

Every weak-ass shot you threw came up short,

I ain’t even flinch — I just fuckin’ report.

Even the suit throw pussy-ass jabs from a chair,

All bold on the clock, real quiet elsewhere.

Paper power posture, spine made of dust,

Talk tough in private, public? zero fuckin’ guts.

You poke, you prod, think I’m finna snap,

Nah — Texas calm, I just bury the map.

End of the year and you still fuckin’ lost,

I paid my dues — you dodged the cost.

Yeah…

Another year dead.

Same mouths open.

Second Shift Samurai — remember who said it