[Verse 1] Tracks are born when I talk in the booth. Had some doubts about you, you turned them all into proof. I told you to lay low, But you have built your road into the wall. You got caught red handed but you don’t admit it at all. I got bars flooding my mind, taking pills for the stress. Which one is bad, and which one’s the best?. And now we are fighting someone who presses buttons to make tracks. Yeah, I talk shit, but I did earn every line. Your writing is fake, and your talent declines. Got ambition, same as my crew, we are crazy with a temper. Creating bars, while you gather words and put them in a blender. I know it’s hard, but pressure makes diamonds so you better learn from this fight. Galactus, Jack Empire and Baby Beats... Team Jack Planetary is always right, and we are taking the lead. You keep talking shit, but you are what you eat. And when we’re done, you also know the taste of defeat. “Who do you bring?” “PsycHaDelphia and Ricky Ray Shoemaker?” “Guess you’re still by yourself then...” You almost got me while you tried to paralyse us. But i saw your pair of lies coming like a fucking bus. I don't chase fame, I got better things to do. While you copy my friends, I'm inventing something new. Every beat bangs, every bar shooting through. Like I'm carving names with a knife and i am starting with you. [Hook] I keep firing, Jack and Baby beats have my back. Every track on your page, is a reminder of facts. So I keep rhymin', and you stand all alone. Burn your channel down, we build a career on our own. [Verse 2] Who wants more, tell them to step to the front Maybe one of your dogs, I’m ready to confront. “PsycHaDelphia?” ”Yo jack, I will kick this one on the shelf with ya” ”Fuck, i got shivers just thinking about this weird one, You should change your name to PsychOdelphia”) Ok where was I?... No gimmicks, no masks, no pretending, no act Just a pen, raw nerves, and a another rapper dead. I go back through where i came from. Hear me laughing in the hallway, now they are quiet in their seats Mouths are shut, they got blisters from the heat. Go to settings and account and proceed pressing delete. You’re like a Pitbull, not the dog but the artist bitch. But the one who is not famous and's autistic, miss. Mister World Wide.. From Italy to LA, From LA then to New York. No one believes this shit except for your bunch of dorks. But they also have a mental problem and are... Highly Unorthodox [Final Hook] I keep firing, Jack and Baby beats have my back. Every track on your page, is a reminder of facts. So I keep rhymin', and you stand all alone. Burn your channel down, we build a career on our own.
