I spit that razor guts gospel, hand-stitched with spite,

You rhyme like a deer caught blinkin’ in my headlights,

I grew fangs in the mirror and baptized my spit,

You just mumble through a verse hopin’ not to get bit,

Every bar’s like a piss test dipped in blood,

I don’t write hooks, I shove crowbars in your gut,

My lines peel paint off your safe space grin,

Your crew folds faster than a thrift store bin,

I laugh with a mouth full of teeth I ain’t earned,

You pray to go viral, I pray the world burns,

Don’t talk pain unless your shadow’s screamed,

I ghostwrite nightmares, you daydream memes.

This ain’t no vibe, it’s a verbal collapse,

You dance to your bars, I choke mine ’til they snap.

I wrote this verse with a busted knuckle,

You wrote yours mid-sip through a Starbucks bubble,

I’ve barked at judges and laughed in cuffs,

You rhyme like your therapist softened you up,

My ink got worms and crooked teeth,

Yours sound like you Googled “bars for peace,”

Fuck peace, I don’t do quiet,

My style’s that kitchen knife carnivore diet,

I got a mouth like a stolen wrench,

You got rhymes like a Boy Scout tent,

My shit got bite, yours got plaque,

My lines got fists, yours beg for a pat.

I ain’t here for a clap or a nod or a spin,

I came to gut this shit and bleed through the grin,

You want streams and likes, I want trauma to spit,

Your name’s a sticker, mine’s carved in the pit.

I keep it raw like a splintered tongue,

You sound like church camp tryin’ to sound “young,”

I walk in the booth like I own the morgue,

You rhyme like the beat gave a “C” on your report,

My jaw been cracked from speakin’ too loud,

You whisper bars with a hug from the crowd,

My pen got rust and my voice got scars,

You rhyme like a sidekick fetchin’ cigars,

I’ve been broke, pissed, banned from the spot,

Still spit like the mic owes me a shot,

You sound like rules, I sound like war,

And I ain’t writin’ for love, I’m settlin’ scores.

I don’t want peace, I want beef for dessert,

I want a mic that hisses and a stage that hurts,

I want crowds with fists and eyes that twitch,

Not college kids dabbin’ to a podcast bitch,

I want sweat, spit, blood and proof,

Not YouTube thumbs and a mirror-tooth truth,

I came from the alley, you came from a thread,

I chew on the weak and shit out the dead,

You motherfuckers ain’t built for this grit,

I bathe in fuck-yous and barroom spit,

I’ll slap your whole brand into last year’s dirt,

And piss on your favorite dress shirt before you go to church.

I want smoke, I want sneers, I want blood on the snare,

I want crowds full of psychos and a stage presence medium rare

You rhyme for clicks, I spit to annoy,

You rhyme like a rental, I kill and destroy,

You float on the beat, I drown it in spite,

Then resuscitate rage just to scream through the night,

I ain’t here for merch, I came to be mean,

To wreck every booth like a junkyard dream,

So fuck your format, fuck your chart,