👠 If The Shoe Fits👠 (BoomBoomAI Diss) @acltracks EXPLICIT LYRICS

V4.5+

Your dad was a coward, but not a damn fool.
I’d rather blow my brains out than raise a cunt like you.
Mom should’ve scraped you before she made the news;
Instead, she kept the receipt for your shoes, and your excuses too.
Instead of cryin’ poor, trade your whore boots for a horseshoe,
Maybe get some luck before your next john screws you.
You fell off the app ‘cause you ignored your own crew, 
The same fools that supported you.
Now you’re that lonely drunk aunt still thinkin’ she’s hip and cool.
Fuck your alt account, your disguise on a burner,
My flow slap the shit outta you like Ike did to Tina Turner.
Like your pimp did when your “clients” ran through and didn’t pay the loot,
Had you washin’ car windows in a see-through jumpsuit.
You worked Philly streets tradin’ tricks for a hit,
Lost teeth for a crack rock, now your dentures don’t fit.
You need to button both lips,
You can’t handle this.
Judging by your alt account’s background pic, you look like a man with tits.
You remind me of a toilet bowl, fat, white, and smells like shit,
With a sore crotch from horse cock, kneelin’ on hot asphalt,
Now your thighs look like a map of every bad life choice you bought.
Meat curtains hang like Babar’s ears with scars,
Your crotch smells like burned tires and cheap cigars.
Now your colon’s all swollen like a botched C-section.
You’re just mad cause you wanted to make a connection
By exchangin’ info but got rejected, you’re the last person I’d wanna have sex with,
Unless I wanted an H-I-V infection.
Like your dead street “friends” you left for bloated,
Or maybe they ghosted you ‘cause your personality is corroded.
Either way, you’re the queen of losing everything, and you know it.
The only thing loyal in your life is that yeast infection growth itch.
Hurry and reply, cause the library’s closin’.

You keep sayin’ my name like you’re tryna summon the Candyman, 
The type to cram a Trapper Keeper in a glitter fanny pack.
Feels like I’m roastin’ a handicap with a forehead so vast,
You could rent it out as a helicopter landing pad.
Your rhymes stay repeatin’ while your hairline’s recedin’.
You’re not competition, you’re just repetition  You’re what happens when syphilis develops ambition.
Your hot breath smells like cigarette, meth, and wet newspapers, 
The type to shoplift lube from Family Dollar ‘cause the store clerk’s a neighbor.
You’re one Groupon away from givin’ handjobs for coupons,
You should’ve moved on, but instead you’re braggin’ online like you’re back droppin’ new songs.
You dress like a clearance bin at a Halloween store,
Smell like a Motel 6 mattress from nineteen seventy-four.
I’ve seen cleaner lines on a rest station bathroom floor, 
You’re like a Netflix sequel that’s a bore nobody asked for.
Your whole career’s like your teeth, mostly missing,
And the ones that remain are in the wrong position.
You got the stage presence of a dog gettin’ his leg up when it’s pissin’,
And your best punchline is that I use too many syllables when I’m spittin’??
You’re the rap game’s gas station sushi roll, 
The kind of thing people only touch when they’re already low on cash flow.
You brag about “taking breaks” like it’s a power move, 
No, you just ran out of cuck followers actin’ like they gave a fuck about you.
You spit like someone trying to read in a moving car,
You look like a fat tard sittin’ in a tub of lard.
You rhyme like you’re scared of the next word comin’,
And you dress like you found your outfit in a Burger King dumpster while you were fuckin’.

If rap was a race, you’d show up in flip flops,
Trip on your long flabby tits, spill your drink, and blame it on your last client’s dick rot.
If wit was a weapon, you’d be a wet sponge, 
Trying to slap-box Godzilla ‘cause you’re high on heavy drugs.
Burner account stalker with a panda pic in place,
Like that’s gonna hide the fact that your background pic is you with your fat ugly face.
You came back from hiatus with a whole new name, 
Still droppin’ great value disses that sound the same.

You’re a little gnat in a rap battle,
Circling my nuts, but easy to handle.
A moth drawn to the candle, 
I’m the swatter in this metaphor, the zapper in this shed,
And you’re just a whiny little insect that forgot she’s already dead.

4803/7500

What happened? You took your initial diss track for me and your fake news bulletin down? Now you dropped a second diss track? Why? According to you, you’ve already won.😁 Your actions speak volumes of a person who took an “L” imo.. But what do I know, right?🤣 Funny how ‘winners’ don’t usually need a fake news segment and three comment essays to explain why they won. If you actually buried me, you’d let the tracks speak. Me? I’m not bending over backwards to prove a point. The proof’s right here. The more you talk, the clearer it gets who really got buried... Your dad was a coward, but not a damn fool. I’d rather blow my brains out than raise a cunt like you. Mom should’ve scraped you before she made the news; Instead, she kept the receipt for your shoes, and your excuses too. Instead of cryin’ poor, trade your whore boots for a horseshoe, Maybe get some luck before your next john screws you. You fell off the app ‘cause you ignored your own crew, The same fools that supported you. Now you’re that lonely drunk aunt still thinkin’ she’s hip and cool. Fuck your alt account, your disguise on a burner, My flow slap the shit outta you like Ike did to Tina Turner. Like your pimp did when your “clients” ran through and didn’t pay the loot, Had you washin’ car windows in a see-through jumpsuit. You worked Philly streets tradin’ tricks for a hit, Lost teeth for a crack rock, now your dentures don’t fit. You need to button both lips, You can’t handle this. Judging by your alt account’s background pic, you look like a man with tits. You remind me of a toilet bowl, fat, white, and smells like shit, With a sore crotch from horse cock, kneelin’ on hot asphalt, Now your thighs look like a map of every bad life choice you bought. Meat curtains hang like Babar’s ears with scars, Your crotch smells like burned tires and cheap cigars. Now your colon’s all swollen like a botched C-section. You’re just mad cause you wanted to make a connection By exchangin’ info but got rejected, you’re the last person I’d wanna have sex with, Unless I wanted an H-I-V infection. Like your dead street “friends” you left for bloated, Or maybe they ghosted you ‘cause your personality is corroded. Either way, you’re the queen of losing everything, and you know it. The only thing loyal in your life is that yeast infection growth itch. Hurry and reply, cause the library’s closin’. You keep sayin’ my name like you’re tryna summon the Candyman, The type to cram a Trapper Keeper in a glitter fanny pack. Feels like I’m roastin’ a handicap with a forehead so vast, You could rent it out as a helicopter landing pad. Your rhymes stay repeatin’ while your hairline’s recedin’. You’re not competition, you’re just repetition You’re what happens when syphilis develops ambition. Your hot breath smells like cigarette, meth, and wet newspapers, The type to shoplift lube from Family Dollar ‘cause the store clerk’s a neighbor. You’re one Groupon away from givin’ handjobs for coupons, You should’ve moved on, but instead you’re braggin’ online like you’re back droppin’ new songs. You dress like a clearance bin at a Halloween store, Smell like a Motel 6 mattress from nineteen seventy-four. I’ve seen cleaner lines on a rest station bathroom floor, You’re like a Netflix sequel that’s a bore nobody asked for. Your whole career’s like your teeth, mostly missing, And the ones that remain are in the wrong position. You got the stage presence of a dog gettin’ his leg up when it’s pissin’, And your best punchline is that I use too many syllables when I’m spittin’?? You’re the rap game’s gas station sushi roll, The kind of thing people only touch when they’re already low on cash flow. You brag about “taking breaks” like it’s a power move, No, you just ran out of cuck followers actin’ like they gave a fuck about you. You spit like someone trying to read in a moving car, You look like a fat tard sittin’ in a tub of lard. You rhyme like you’re scared of the next word comin’, And you dress like you found your outfit in a Burger King dumpster while you were fuckin’. If rap was a race, you’d show up in flip flops, Trip on your long flabby tits, spill your drink, and blame it on your last client’s dick rot. If wit was a weapon, you’d be a wet sponge, Trying to slap-box Godzilla ‘cause you’re high on heavy drugs. Burner account stalker with a panda pic in place, Like that’s gonna hide the fact that your background pic is you with your fat ugly face. You came back from hiatus with a whole new name, Still droppin’ great value disses that sound the same. You’re a little gnat in a rap battle, Circling my nuts, but easy to handle. A moth drawn to the candle, I’m the swatter in this metaphor, the zapper in this shed, And you’re just a whiny little insect that forgot she’s already dead.

0/500