[Verse 1]
I load bars like clips, .50 cal through your doctrine,
Bodies get dropped like bids in an auction.
God Mode active, I spit like I’m Odin’s heir,
Turn mics to battlefields, grenades in the snare.
I don’t rap—I launch strikes, no safeties, no permits,
My verse? Hollow tips dipped in rage and sermons.
You talk tough? I split atoms in your chest plate,
My bars bend time—yours barely make a dent, mate.
Napalm syllables, I paint with blood-red brushes,
You bench press rhymes, I drop MOAB discussions.
Surgical shots—no scope on the rooftop,
Your crew gets ghosted like I’m wieldin’ Black Ops.
---
[Hook – Aggressive Female Vocal]
He’s armed with verbs, no peace when he spits—
Every line’s a killshot, no love in his clips.
God mode ignited—fuck your squad and your crown,
This the final bullet—you’re buried in sound.
---
[Verse 2]
I spit flame through the muzzle, fuck peace, I'm a menace,
Every line’s a death sentence—bars got no repentance.
Bitch, I don't battle—I bomb shit, flatten your entrance,
Turn cyphers to crime scenes, chalk lines in the trenches.
Your whole squad soft—y’all rap like you beggin’ for hugs,
I drop verses like slugs, got priests screamin’ “Oh fuck!”
A warlord with wordplay, I’m hell in a sentence,
Put a hit on your ego, then piss on your penance.
I'm not a rapper, I'm a goddamn affliction,
My flow’s sick—got the mic on a morphine prescription.
Snatch your crown, then beat you with it—no intermission,
I make classics outta curses, bitch, this my religion.
---
[Verse 3]
I beat my chest like gorillas before the blood hits the floor,
Barbarian bars—I crack ribs just opening doors.
You want smoke? Bitch, I’m napalm in a zip file,
Hit squads in my syllables—death served in slick style.
Ain’t no peace pipe—just pipe bombs in your direction,
Each line a crucifixion, bitch, this is conviction.
I spit with a vengeance, forged from hell’s kitchen,
My pen’s a machete—cut deep without slippin’.
You bark online, I spark offline—real live collisions,
Fuck your metaphors, I rewrite existence.
I’m the glitch in your matrix, the beast in your prism,
Turn your whole catalog to a suicide mission.
No cap, no brakes—I black out and go primal,
Punchlines in packs like wolves—ain’t shit tribal.
Gorilla grip on the game, I snap necks with my verse,
You went viral? That’s cute—I went biblical with this curse.
---
[Verse 4 – Final Edit]
I drop lines like Tomahawks—precision through silence,
My pen’s a warhead—impact breeds islands of violence.
Ain’t no reruns of this, bitch, I’m one of one,
Rhyme schemes so rare, even gods come undone.
I craft bars like bunker busters, deep in your core,
detonate truth where your conscience once wore.
fuck a debate—I dismantle your essence,
Leave smoke in your soul and a crater for a presence.
I don’t spit to impress, I spit to collapse,
lyrical scarcity—each verse worth more than your stacks.
This ain’t rap—it’s black ops, encrypted in cadence,
i make classi
