[Aggressive spoken-word hip-hop, sarcastic and defiant delivery] [Verse 1] I was raised where the playground jokes were barbed-wire fences, Every sentence got a laugh, not a life-long sentence. Now you breathe a wrong word, they call SWAT on your mentions, Actin' like a syllable's equivalent to weapons. Y'all grew up on sticks and stones, I grew up where the sticks were thrown, We learned to dodge rocks, you learned to screenshot phones. Now you clutch pearls over adjectives and adverbs, While I'm tryna clutch world tours with these bad words. You say "language is violence," cool, then every book's a gun, Every hook's a hollow tip, every look you give is one. If a phrase is an assault, then your quotes are grenades, And your think pieces are mines that you hide in the shade. [Hook] They say my talk's offensive, But your heart's too damn sensitive. You can cancel my sentence, Still can't censor how relentless is my emphasis. You turn comments into combat, You keep loggin' in to contact Things that trigger what you broadcast, But I'm still stick-and-stones, You just bones that the mob backs. [Verse 2] I watched the culture shift from "Say it, who cares?" To "Say it, who dared?" then everybody declares They're a victim of a phrase they were never even there for, Now you traumatized by jokes you weren't alive to prepare for. You skim a screenshot, crown yourself an expert, Then drag a stranger's name through the digital dirt. You don't do research, you do re-search terms, Just feed the search bar what affirms your concerns. You ain't offended, you addicted to the rush of indignation, Turn irritation into instant reputation. If feelings are the jury, then facts are on probation, And everybody's guilty of existing in your nation. You got outrage merch, monetized hurt, Ad revenue in every single triggered alert. Your pain's got a Patreon, your rage got a sponsor, Trauma's your aesthetic, and your therapist is "content." [Hook] They say my talk's offensive, But your heart's too damn sensitive. You can cancel my sentence, Still can't censor how relentless is my emphasis. You turn comments into combat, You keep loggin' in to contact Things that trigger what you broadcast, But I'm still stick-and-stones, You just bones that the mob backs. [Bridge] You want a world with no tension, no friction, No sharp edges, just a padded jurisdiction. But if words can't cut, then they can't carve wisdom, And if pain's outlawed, you just outlawed vision. [Outro] So keep polishin' your pitchforks, sharpen up your hashtags, I'll keep sharpenin' my syntax, carv'n out my own path. You call it "problematic," I call it "grown and candid," If a word can make you shatter, then you never really had it. I'm from an era where we laughed through the static, Now you panic over language like it's black magic. I still live by that old-school investment: Sticks and stones, kid— Words only cut if you let 'em.
