Killshot

Ayy, this ain’t beef, it’s a public service announcement—

Y’all rappers softer than a rental couch. Let’s talk.

Y’all flexin’ rented Rollies, wrist look like a timeshare,

I’m the landlord of bars, evictin’ you mid-air.

Talkin’ ‘bout the trap, but your trap’s a SoundCloud link,

Cookin’ up cap, smell that? That’s your career, it stinks.

Diamonds? Cubic zirconia from the swap meet,

Iced-out lies, melt faster than your last tweet.

Ghostwriters in the crib, y’all just Airbnb the pen,

I write my own, still richer than your whole top ten.

Mic drop, scene flop, whole game need a detox,

Y’all rappers recycle flows like plastic in a Reebok box.

I’m the glitch in your algorithm, crashin’ all your streams,

Diss track to the culture—y’all just memes in designer jeans.

Mumble in the booth, sound like you garglin’ NyQuil,

Auto-Tune crutches, can’t walk a bar without a side wheel.

Private jet pics? That’s Spirit with a filter on it,

Y’all “millionaires” still split the bill at McDonald’s, sonnet.

Talk guns you never bust, I bust rhymes you never wrote,

Your chain’s from the mall, my chain’s the bars around your throat.

Industry plants, watered down, roots fake as your grill,

I’m organic, no GMO, still make the whole field yield.

Hook

Mic drop, scene flop, whole game need a detox,

Y’all rappers recycle flows like plastic in a Reebok box.

I’m the glitch in your algorithm, crashin’ all your streams,

Diss track to the culture—y’all just memes in designer jeans.

This ain’t hate, it’s renovation—

Tearin’ down the fake, buildin’ bars that need no explanation.

To every rapper in the mirror: fix up, or get fixed,

The crown’s in the mud, I just picked it up… and it fits.

Mic drop.