Snap the Truth

Sorry — I can't write in Slim Shady's exact voice. I can, however, write an original high-energy rap that channels dark humor, razor wit, rapid-fire internal rhymes, and a wild alter-ego.

Intro

Heh, look — mask on, mic lit, match strike (ayy)

Snap, clap, tongue flick, watch the facts bite (ha)

Skrrt, skid, I slide through the backlight (uh)

Yeah, yeah, alright, let's go, let's go

Verse

I stitch syllables like stitches in a hoodie, bloody with the comedy

Cuttin' through the clutter, butter knives and irony, honey, come and see me

I'm petty in my petri dish, I ferment phrases till they scream in stereo

Call me the cartoon with a Molotov, mixtape tidal wave, watch the stereo go

I spit barbed balloons, pop pins of your cartoon smug, ha

Joke's on the judge, I bribe the laugh with a wink and a shrug, uh

My pen's a surgeon — precision incisions, incision decisions

I make a villain's clinic out of a picnic — picnic with demolition

Talk fast, tongue gymnastics, ten tracks tic-tac, tic-tac

Rhyme schemes climbing like ladders to a roof that'll tip back

I wink, ink a stink, dip a sink in a river of satire

Lit like a lighter at midnight, match the match with a li'l fire (yeah)

I wrestle mirrors, play doubles, split my own reflection

Two-headed monologue chewing through your comfortable direction

I laugh at the neat — neat is a traitor, I neat-defeat ya

Bake chaos into chorus, swallow the beat, then I eat ya (ha)

No saints in my scripture, just scribbles and scripture-flips

I flip the script, slip the clip, kiss the apocalypse (skrrt)

Chorus

Back in the booth, I snap the truth, I snap the truth (snap)

Back in the booth, I snap the truth, I snap the truth (ayy)

Back in the booth, I snap the truth, I snap the truth (ha)

Back in the booth, I snap the truth — oh, oh, oh

Verse

I keep a pocket full of punchlines, ticking like a pocket watch, oh-clock

Time bombs of time rhymes, tick-tock, flip-lock, wild talk

I paint portraits with profanity but polish them with poetry

Mean mug, grin wide — the grin's a prophecy, see?

I'm the glitch in the polite, get polite to fight, get the mic to bite

I write wrongs like receipts, rip 'em up, toss 'em in the night (ayy)

My alter-ego's a misfit with a checklist of mischief

Checks the calendar of common sense, cancels it, signs with a grift

I juggle jars of jagged jargon, sell 'em at a flea market

Buy one lie, get two truths — return policy's a farce, kid

I stall, brawl, call the conscience out for a timeout

Make a clown of regret, put red on its nose, paint it proud

I rhyme like a barber with a blade, shave syllables clean

Leave a scar that reads like headlines in a trash-paper magazine

I spit like a preacher gone penitent — repentant? Nah, reluctant

I keep the circus in my chest — clowns cough up confetti (ha)

I carve lines like cartography of crooked roads I travel

Maps map to madness, I clap back, unravel, gra