[INTRO] Yeah... Ring the bell. Dim the lights. Somebody's writing career just got buried under sixteen bars. DJ— CUT! FONTUCKY! [HOOK] Welcome to the Fontucky funeral, Bring your weak-ass verse to the viewing, No flowers, no tears, no beautiful speeches, Just a microphone exposing what the writing was missing. Fontucky funeral— Hear the church bell ring, We bury dead clichés while the Paper Crown King sings, Fontucky funeral— Let the dusty break knock, If your rhyme already died, why the fuck did you bring it to the block? [VERSE 1] Black suit? Nah. Khaki. Paper crown? Obviously. I came dressed for the funeral of your originality. Casket in the center, notebook on the lid, Somebody wrote "predictable" where the nameplate should've been. Rest in peace to the metaphor I heard a thousand times. Rest in peace to the punchline you telegraphed before the rhyme. Rest in peace to the "I'm the greatest" speech everybody memorized. Rest in peace to the flow that sounds like five other guys. I'm not being cruel. I'm being accurate. If the same damn sentence keeps showing up, somebody needs to bury it. That's lyrical housekeeping. That's sanitation. That's taking out the garbage before it contaminates the basement. Your verse got a funeral procession following it down the street. Every cliché wearing black. Every tired rhyme holding flowers. The DJ's in the back scratching "next" over and over like a fucking warning. And I'm standing at the podium trying not to laugh. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today because originality was apparently too much fucking work." Amen. That's the eulogy. That's the obituary. That's the end of the road for another recycled metaphor wearing somebody else's clothes. [HOOK] Welcome to the Fontucky funeral, Bring your weak-ass verse to the viewing, No flowers, no tears, no beautiful speeches, Just a microphone exposing what the writing was missing. Fontucky funeral— Hear the church bell ring, We bury dead clichés while the Paper Crown King sings, Fontucky funeral— Let the dusty break knock, If your rhyme already died, why the fuck did you bring it to the block? [VERSE 2] I don't kill creativity. I kill complacency. There's a difference. I'm not here to silence voices. I'm here to challenge the craft. If you write something incredible, I'll stand up and applaud it. If you write some lazy bullshit, I'm bringing flowers to the aftermath. That's competition. That's respect. Because pretending weak writing is good doesn't help anybody. It just lowers the ceiling. I'd rather tell you, "That shit ain't ready." Then watch you rewrite it. Cut the filler. Change the cadence. Find a better image. Replace the obvious rhyme with something nobody expected. That's resurrection. Now we're talking. See, every dead verse can become raw material. You can take the failed metaphor and turn it into another idea. Take the weak hook and rebuild the rhythm. Take the embarrassing first draft and make it the foundation for something fucking dangerous. That's why the funeral is symbolic. We're not burying the artist. We're burying the lazy version. We're burying the excuse. We're burying the habit of stopping when the first draft sounds halfway decent. Halfway decent? Fuck that. Keep going. Push it. Break it. Rebuild it. Make the sentence earn its place. Make every syllable carry weight. Then maybe the funeral ends and something better walks out. That's the whole joke. The coffin isn't for you. It's for the shit you should've rewritten. [BRIDGE] Bell rings. Drums stop. Silence. Then the DJ whispers— "Run that shit back." [VERSE 3] Now put your best verse inside the casket. Let's see if it survives the autopsy. Cadence looks healthy. Rhyme scheme? Questionable. Internal structure? Needs fucking work. Punchline? Predictable. Metaphor? Already deceased. Cause of death? Lack of imagination. Motherfucker, that's a full report. I'm not guessing. I'm listening. That's what battle rap should be. Observation with rhythm. Insults with construction. Disrespect with fucking substance. Not just screaming louder. Not just threatening somebody. Not just stacking curse words like profanity itself is a punchline. Anybody can say fuck. Make the word fit the meter. Make it reinforce the thought. Make it hit harder because of where you placed it. That's writing. That's the shit I came here for. So ring another bell. Open another casket. Bring me another weak verse. I'll bring the black notebook. I'll bring the crooked crown. I'll bring the fucking obituary. And if somebody finally brings a verse that's too good to bury? I'll close the book. Stand up. Give them respect. Because the real goal isn't having nobody challenge you. The goal is finding somebody good enough to make you sharpen up. That's how the craft survives. That's how the cipher stays alive. Everything else? Funeral material. WHIIIIIIIIIIIIIDESIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE! [FINAL HOOK] Welcome to the Fontucky funeral, Bring your weak-ass verse to the viewing, No flowers, no tears, no beautiful speeches, Just a microphone exposing what the writing was missing. Fontucky funeral— Hear the church bell ring, We bury dead clichés while the Paper Crown King sings, Fontucky funeral— Let the dusty break knock, If your rhyme already died, why the fuck did you bring it to the block? [OUTRO] Close the casket. Turn the record over. New beat. New verse. Old bullshit? Leave it underground. DJ— CUT! SALUTE!
