[Intro]
(Grind the vinyl — feel the crackle)
DJ: Yo — one-two! Dust off the break, loop the snare — let the horns moan.
Crowd: Uh! Uh! (scratch) — Bring it back!
[Verse 1] (16 bars)
I flip crates like confessions—needle drops, secrets exposed,
You flex cheap chrome — hollow thunder, no weight in those poses.
Call you a ghostwriter? Nah, you a ghost in your own tape,
Rewind your brag, hear the skip — chorus of the fake.
You wear borrowed swagger, zipper-tagged and store-bought fame,
I resurrect records, wreck sets, respect checks — remember the name.
Corner cipher veteran, I spit lessons in triple time,
You stumble on the punchline — watch me land, watch me prime.
Your verse is a postcard — same picture, same shade of cliché,
I paint murals with syllables, breakbeats pave the way.
Claim you trained with legends — your lineage's a typo,
I study crates at midnight, crate-diggin’ like I’m solo.
You parade cheap flexes — rented bling, rented flows,
I own the blueprint, blueprint burns when my engine goes.
Setup: you scream loud, shock value, hollow glare;
Punch: I cut the electricity — lights out, I’m still there.
[Hook / Chorus]
Mic check, crown set, step back from the throne,
Old school blueprint — I build and you clone. (repeat)
Mic check, crown set, step back from the throne,
Old school blueprint — I build and you clone. (ad-lib: yeah!)
[Verse 2] (16 bars)
You got soundcloud medals, participation trophies for noise,
I got block-party trophies — real hands, real boys.
You ghost your own gigs, call it 'flex' on a weekday,
I front the cipher, spark a riot — we stay and play.
Your bars are templates — Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V in the booth,
My lines harvest truth, plant seed, watch 'em proof.
You call it 'brand', I call it a mask — cheap theater smoke,
I dismantle your set-piece with a lyricist's choke.
You scream bigger-than-life, but your mirror lied to you,
I write size-12 truths that stomp through your shoes.
Reference: breakbeats, horn stabs, vinyl hiss for the soul,
You glossy like tabloids — I publish essays in scroll.
Setup: you say you 'run hip-hop' with a rented coupe;
Punch: my city runs memories — boomboxes loop the truth.
Ad-lib response: (uh!) Scratch: [scratch — cut the fake]
[Hook / Chorus]
Mic check, crown set, step back from the throne,
Old school blueprint — I build and you clone. (repeat)
Mic check, crown set, step back from the throne,
Old school blueprint — I build and you clone. (ad-lib: check!)
[Bridge] (call-and-response + scratches)
MC: Who taught you to rap? (Crowd: Who?)
MC: The brochure in the lobby? (Crowd: No way!)
DJ: [scratch — yo!] — "I learned from the streets" — nah, you sampled a parade,
Crowd: (ooh!) — call it a cameo, never played the game.
[Verse 3 — Knockout] (16 bars)
Last round, last bell, ink dries on your last claim,
I clip your wings with metaphors — now your flight's a name.
You practice ad-libs in a mirror so the echo calls you brave,
I write verses that wake neighborhoods from a seventy-year grave.
You stage whis
