BURIAL OF A WACK DISS RAPPER

Verse

You drop a diss and call it fire? Boy, that’s tragic ambition,

Your bars so dead I had to check for flatline conditions.

You’re the type to call smoke, then choke on your own ignition—

I’m the whole demolition crew, you’re a one-man malfunction.

Verse

You swing weak punches—bro, you’re missin’ the bag,

Your flow sloppy like you’re rappin’ with your pants full of sandbags.

I carve lines so clean they could split atoms in half,

You spit lines so limp they couldn’t make a toddler laugh.

Verse

You need training wheels just to ride on a beat,

I’m a fully loaded tank rollin’ down your little dead-end street.

You claim your diss tracks kill? That’s a fictional lie—

Only body you ever dropped was your Wi-Fi.

Verse

You rhyme like you panic every time you touch a pen,

You rewrite the same bar five times and still flop in the end.

You’re a bootleg version of trash — discounted and cheap,

Even your shadows walk away ‘cause they’re ashamed to be seen.

Outro

I don’t battle you for clout — that’s charity work,

Your whole style’s so hollow it’s basically a quirk.

I’m the mountain you can’t climb, the storm you can’t weather,

Your best track couldn’t touch my throwaways ever.

You call yourself a rapper? Naw — you’re filler, you're static.

I’m the funeral director — and this verse is automatic.

So zip up your career, put the mic down slow,

‘Cause this is your burial notice — signed with a killer flow.