BURY THE CROWN

(Verse 1)

Man, f*** a “Top 5,” you ain’t even top tier,

You the king of what? Whisper-rap and manufactured fear.

Actin’ like the savior, but your ego’s the one you praise,

Your whole catalog feel like homework nobody wants to grade.

You claim you got the smoke? Boy, you barely light a match,

Your punches never land—every bar swing and scratch.

You talk like you prophetic, like you speakin’ for the masses,

But every album lately sound like TED Talks with ad-libs.

Mr. “Heart Part 5,” but your chest ain’t built for war,

You a poet with a podium, not a legend with rapport.

I ain’t buying into myths of that Compton folklore,

You the king of overthinkin’, not the throne you beg for.

(Hook)

I tear the crown off your head, leave your empire numb,

You write essays on beats—boy, I rap till you go dumb.

24’s on the Lincoln while the West turn ho-hum,

’Cause without Dre’s halo, you ain’t s*** but ho-hum.

(Verse 2 – Going for the throat)

Let’s talk that “control” verse—you barked louder than you bit,

You named whole industry, but never backed up s***.

Your diss tracks hit like feathers, mine hit like a brick,

Your whole persona fragile like your octave shift.

You built your whole career off trauma and self-doubt,

Then brag about your pain like that’s somethin’ to flex about.

You the prince of contradictions, Mr. Morale? Sit down—

You preach mental health, then try to tear others down.

Every feature you hop on turn sentimental and soft,

You the only rapper breathin’ who can make trap beats cough.

And don’t talk “lyrical” when half your metaphors lost—

You need Genius.com just to explain what they cost.

(Hook)

I tear the crown off your head, leave your empire numb,

You write essays on beats—boy, I rap till you go dumb.

24’s on the Lincoln while the West turn ho-hum,

’Cause without Dre’s halo, you ain’t s*** but ho-hum.

(Bridge – Final knife twist)

You ain’t fearless—you calculated, curated, fabricated,

Every move debated, every album overstated.

You the “king” ’cause no one else cared to chase it,

I came through, no mercy—now watch me erase it.

(Outro)

So bow out quiet, go retreat to your cave,

You a critic with a cadence, not a rapper to save.

Your pen good, but your presence just ain’t that brave—

I bring smoke you can’t handle—now salute to your grave.