SEC Championship energy, grown mans standin’ in this pit,
Other team got a pimp in this bitch pickin’ peas by the hemp in this shit.
Put your ass in a crocus sack, you the example of this hit,
I come up with this spit just to make a bold example of this grit.
I’m messin’ up but fuck that shit, knock your pieces off the mantle quick,
We come through like wet toilet paper on a boot heel when I ran through it.
Sky was liquid—diarrhea drippin’ on ya whole arena,
Poke my eyes out ‘cause I don’t see ya, ghost mode like I’m leukemia.
Mad shit, bad shit, I’m in this bitch with Nick, bitch,
We got more fire than a flamethrower striking a wick switch.
All y’all niggas just lame whores, team softer than clay floors,
Come through this bitch with the flamethrower, burnin’ down your state boards.
Boil your ass, scorch your ass, sizzling—
Now your whole squad smell like a pot full of chitlins, giggling.
Georgia bulldog bite, Alabama look like y’all practice on ice,
Y’all playbook read like coupons, clipped wrong, sloppy, not precise.
We hit the line like freight trains, helmets crackin’ loud as chain gangs,
Y’all defense got more holes in it than pocket-lint in loose change.
Crimson Tide? Boy stop—more like pink puddles after rain,
Georgia flood your whole terrain, stomp you out like sugarcane.
Snap your quarterback in half—wishbone, Thanksgiving craft,
Crowd laughin’, scoreboard flashin’, y’all whole sideline lookin’ sad.
We don’t huddle, we hustle, muscle you out your tunnel,
Run game heavy like steamboats, pressure bust your funnel.
I’m Zeus McKnight with the mic strike, fight night, slice twice,
Hit you with that right light—Roll Tide? Roll where? Roll rice.
Y’all mascots look like divorced uncles, hurt pride, truck problems,
Georgia mascots look like we sue banks and solve problems.
We the bulldogs crackin’ jaws off, breakin’ pads and snappin’ calls off,
Alabama showin’ up with soft sauce, weak as Walmart coleslaw.
We got the field shakin’, cleats scrapin’, turf bakin’,
Y’all got excuses circulatin’, teammates yellin’, hearts breakin’.
Punt return? Boy, Georgia flip that bitch like laundromats,
Touchdown runs long as Bible chapters, y’all can’t handle that.
We hit harder than unpaid bills, eviction slips, and liquor chills,
You hit like grandma tossin’ pillows—boy, sit down, be still.
Georgia runnin’ like moonshine mills, Alabama spillin’ drills,
Your coach look stressed like overdue rent and unpaid medical bills.
We pop pads like pop rocks, chop blocks, nonstop,
Your O-line vanish every snap like TikTok crops.
I’m talkin’ real SEC warzone, sweat smell like brimstone,
Georgia run the throne while Alabama try to borrow stones.
Flamethrower blowin’ heat, melt your cleats, melt your street,
Smokin’ like burnt pork meat—y’all can’t compete, y’all obsolete.
Georgia vs. Alabama—this ain’t a game, this an execution,
Victory so loud the refs need earplugs and legal restitution.
We the champs, the dogs, the kings, the crown—
And Alabama? Sit yo’ ass down
Wawee
