Joke of the Year

Verse

You call yourself a rapper? That’s the joke of the year,

Your whole catalog’s so weak it starts crying in fear.

Verse

Every verse you drop is weaker than your last try,

Your bars fall flat like your streaming numbers… bone-dry.

Verse

You rap like your mic’s allergic to skill,

Every track you drop sounds medically ill.

Your flow’s off-beat like your brain’s on delay,

I’d roast you on a slow day, but today you in the way.

Verse

Your rhymes basic — ABC’s with no twist,

I drop schemes so heavy they leave the beat in a fist.

You say you’re next up? Nah — you’re barely even here,

Your hype disappear quicker than your fans each year.

Verse

You’re a punchline punching bag — I swing, you fold,

Every diss you throw melts down before it gets cold.

Your bars predictable — same setup, same flop,

You rhyme “grind” with “time” like you begging it to stop.

Verse

I’m the nightmare you meet when you challenge the best,

You’re the YouTube ad rap that people skip when they’re stressed.

I’m the blueprint, the architect, building with rage,

You’re the scribble on the corner of a torn notebook page.

Verse

You talk smoke? I’m the wildfire swallowing woods,

You talk “hood”? You ain't even known in your neighborhood.

I’m the pressure you can’t handle, the storm you can’t weather,

Your career’s like your bars — weak, shaky, held together.

Outro

So step back, little rapper, before you get exposed,

You just entered a war zone armed with recycled flows.

I’m the final boss battle — you’re not ready for this,

Now bow down — you just got ended in a diss.