YCNFWTK

Crowns aren’t handed out, brother—

they’re carved in the dark.

Check the initials. Take a knee.

Pressure cooker — pulse in the pipe‑line,

Pain in the paint — I’m a fight‑line lifeline.

Talk cheap — I tax tongues, break backs,

Crack tracks open like monks in a flash‑back.

Shadow in the rafters — laughter dead‑pan,

Dragging every doubt like a chain through a dead land.

Savage with the pen‑tip, panic in the hem‑stitch,

Bleed when I breathe, every bar is a band‑switch.

You call the crown a burden—

I call it baseline truth.

Your echo dies in silence

when a lion owns the booth.

Carved in the thunder, burned in the clay.

Stone to the bone, I don’t bend, I don’t break—

You can not f*** with the king.

Hands to the sky when the bass drum swings,

Heartbeat hammer and the choir all sing,

Write it in blood on the back of the ring—

You can not f*** with the king.

Picked this riff in a rust‑lit alley,

Strung six sins on a one‑note tally.

Kid with a matchbook, struck that charm—

Lit up the dark like a midnight spar.

Met my fear on a ten‑speed bike,

Pedaled that panic through flood‑light nights.

Every bruise was a breadcrumb path—

Now the wolves eat good, but they choke on wrath.

Yeah—

Gold crown thrift‑store find, fits fine, still shine, chassis of a king in a scatter‑shot bloodline.

Crash‑line headlines: ‘Boy Built Empire Outta Dead Time.’

Cash? I invest mine, passion in the stem‑line,

Ride every baseline, laugh at the landmines—

Man, my punchlines bench‑press deadlines!

ALL THESE THRONES ARE EMPTY CHAIRS—

I fill ’em with the weight of stares,

Nightmares kneel in electric prayer,

Lightning lives in the locks of my hair!

Tattooed truth in the roar of the rain.

Stone to the bone, I don’t bend, I don’t break—

You can not f*** with the king.

Crowd to the front when the downbeat rings,

Torch in the throat of the choir that sings,

Echo my name till the satellites sting—

You can not f*** with the king.

Remember it.