Question the Narrative

(Intro – sirens, distorted news clip)
“Breaking news—”
Man shut the fuck up, break the truth.

(Verse 1)
Straight out the feed where the anchors lie,
Suit full of shit while the missiles fly.
Talkin’ “defense,” that PR disguise,
While kids in the rubble got dust in their eyes.

Backroom dinners with the money stacked,
Policy written where the cameras ain’t at.
Smile for the press, shake hands real tight,
Sign that deal, then bomb that night.

They say “classified,” they say “secure,”
But leaked papers show what the war’s for.
Billions in weapons, billions in gain,
Blood on the stock when it spike again.

Every headline feel copy-paste,
Same damn script with a different face.
Call it “measured,” call it “clean,”
Ain’t shit clean when you level a scene.

(Hook)
Who the fuck own the mic and the screen?
Why every channel push the same routine?
Spin that shit, package it neat,
While the truth get buried under talking-point heat.
You can’t fool the whole damn globe,
Truth leak out when the lies explode.

(Verse 2)
From D.C. towers to Westminster halls,
Leaders talk tough but they soft in the calls.
Red-tie flex with the loudmouth grin,
Tweetin’ fire while the war drums spin.

“Strongest ally,” repeat that phrase,
Like a damn robot in a scripted haze.
Meanwhile streets in another land
Turn to ash under command.

Stand at the podium, look real stern,
Say “we’re concerned” while the cities burn.
Ceasefire talk get brushed aside,
But they shocked when the people ride.

Protests loud in the rain and cold,
Chants cut sharper than the lies they sold.
Democracy? Then hear the street.
Don’t just clap when the donors meet.

(Verse 3)
Aid trucks stuck at a guarded gate,
Officials shrug, say “it’s complicated.”
Hospitals hit, reporters blocked,
But the press conference say “surgical strike.”

Veto power in the global room,
Human rights talk while the bombs go boom.
You can’t preach peace with a loaded crate,
Then act confused at the public hate.

Lobby cash flow like oil through veins,
Funding campaigns, controlling the lanes.
Same “experts” lined up to speak,
Water it down so it sound less bleak.

But social feeds ain’t buying it,
Clips get shared and they frying it.
You can censor a post, you can spin a quote,
But you can’t hide smoke when the sky turn black with it.

(Bridge (spoken, intense)
This ain’t about religion.
This ain’t about race.
It’s about power and the games they play.
Governments lie.
Corporations cash in.
And the people stuck paying for all that sin.

(Final Hook)
Who the fuck own the mic and the screen?
Why every channel push the same routine?
If truth’s a threat to the throne you sit,
Maybe that throne built on bullshit.
No untouchable suits, no sacred names—
If you spark that fire, you own them flames.

1991 Compton protest rap, gritty boom bap drums, funky bass groove, forceful rhythmic delivery, street sermon