[Intro – cold, disrespectful]
Yeah…
From greatness to bullshit.
Pink Slip Sniper.
Second Shift Samurai Squad.
Let’s fuckin’ talk.
⸻
[Verse 1 – fast Monster cadence]
I grew up where the pen was a weapon, not a fuckin’ prop,
Every bar meant somethin’, every line made heads drop.
Now it’s slurred-ass gibberish, mumble-mouth trash,
Lazy-ass rappers high as shit, can’t finish a bar to save ass.
How we go from scriptures to this brain-dead noise?
From killers on wax to these auto-tuned fuckin’ toys?
You call it a vibe ’cause it don’t make you think,
Just sip your dumb-ass drink and nod off to the stink.
Where the hunger? Where the fire? Where the fuck is the skill?
If the verse don’t cut skin, I’m callin’ it ill.
I’m from speakers that taught you survival and pain,
Now it’s ringtone-ass rap just beggin’ for fame.
⸻
[Hook – slow, repeat twice]
This ain’t hip-hop, this shit parody rap,
All noise, no soul, no spine in the track.
From greatness to shit—yeah, I’m sayin’ it flat,
Pink Slip Sniper bring the craft back.
⸻
[Verse 2 – venom, heavy pauses]
They whisper on beats like they scared of the truth,
No cadence, no balls, no bite in the booth.
Chopped and screwed till the message is dead,
Culture drowned in syrup, dumb shit in your head.
Don’t tell me “it’s new,” don’t bullshit my face,
New still needs skill—this shit’s empty of base.
Million streams, zero fuckin’ substance,
A hook, a shrug, and a label-ass budget.
No metaphors sharpened, no layers to peel,
Just lazy-ass vibes for idiots thinkin’ it’s real.
⸻
[Hook – repeat twice, nastier]
This ain’t hip-hop, this shit parody rap,
All noise, no soul, no spine in the track.
From greatness to shit—yeah, I’m sayin’ it flat,
Pink Slip Sniper bring the craft back.
⸻
[Verse 3 – NY grit, full disrespect]
I was raised by the elders through vinyl and scars,
Where a verse could expose you and rip you apart.
Now the bar’s in the basement, standards in hell,
Y’all clap for bullshit while the art fuckin’ fails.
I don’t hate evolution—I hate erosion of spine,
When talent gets buried under vibes and a line.
If your shit can’t live raw, no effects, no tricks,
Then your record ain’t art—it’s disposable shit.
⸻
[Bridge – spoken, cold]
This is for the writers.
The spitters.
Not you lazy mumble-mouth fucks.
⸻
[Verse 4 – final execution]
So keep your syrupy whispers and ghostwritten hooks,
I’ll keep verbs that punch holes through comfortable looks.
Hip-hop’s a language—stop rapin’ the tongue,
If you ain’t sayin’ shit, don’t press record, son.
I’m ringin’ the bell for the craft, not the clout,
For the sweat in the booth and the truth bled out.
From greatness to grit—I’m demandin’ the climb,
Pink Slip Sniper—cut clean, reclaimin’ the time
MIG1274
