Steel Town Barges

[INTRO] Yeah... You wanted hardcore? Cool. I hope you brought something better than excuses. WHIIIIITESIIIIIDE! TALK THAT SHIT! [HOOK] Talk that shit, I'ma talk right back, Put your whole little fantasy flat on its back, You can type all day, I don't care about that, Put a beat in front of me— Watch me handle the track. Talk that shit, better make it worth hearing, I'm allergic to weak bars and manufactured appearances, I walk in calm, leave the whole room reconsidering— You thought I was finished? That's fucking hilarious. [VERSE 1] I don't need an introduction, the cadence got credentials, Every sentence got a blade but the language stays professional. I'm a blue-collar scholar with a heavyweight vocabulary, Make a weak rapper disappear from his own commentary. You got followers. Congratulations. I got syllables stacked up like unpaid obligations. Your whole flow sound rented, mine came with the foundation, You rap for validation, I rap for intimidation. Not threats— Performance. There's a difference. I'm dismantling a rapper with linguistic precision. I can turn a simple sentence into five contradictions, Then make every contradiction reinforce my position. That's called writing. You call it “doing too much.” I call it giving the listener something they can chew on. Every bar got another bar hiding behind it, Every rhyme got another little rhyme intertwined in it, Every punchline got a setup you probably won't find it until somebody hits rewind and suddenly— “Oh, shit.” Exactly. That's the reaction. I'm not chasing your approval or your algorithm's affection, I'm trying to make the beat regret accepting the connection. WHIIIIITESIIIIIDE! [HOOK] Talk that shit, I'ma talk right back, Put your whole little fantasy flat on its back, You can type all day, I don't care about that, Put a beat in front of me— Watch me handle the track. Talk that shit, better make it worth hearing, I'm allergic to weak bars and manufactured appearances, I walk in calm, leave the whole room reconsidering— You thought I was finished? That's fucking hilarious. [VERSE 2] I got hands like a fighter and a mouth like a lawyer, So choose your argument carefully before you employ it. I don't brag about winning every fight— I just don't scare easy. There's a difference between aggression and being uneasy. I stand my ground. That's all. No movie scene. No fake tough-guy speech. Just confidence in what I mean. And when it comes to firearms, I know the language and the names, but I keep that knowledge in the character—not instructional games. I'm here for the imagery, the attitude, the cadence, turning “ammo” into metaphors for the amount of information. Every verse is a magazine— Of metaphors. Every line gets chambered— Then fired through the speakers. Scratch. Not telling you how to build shit. I'm telling you how the pen gets lethal. That's the difference. My ammunition is language. My target is the weakness in the rhythm. I don't need to touch anybody when the sixteen already hit 'em. That's battle rap. Make 'em rethink every word they ever put on a beat. Make 'em check their own reflection after hearing how you speak. [BRIDGE] You don't gotta like me. That's fine. Just don't confuse dislike with disbelief. I know what I can do. [VERSE 3] I'm disrespectful with a dictionary, dangerous with a thesaurus, Turn a basic four-bar verse into a verbal divorce. I can make a punchline hit without raising my voice, then switch gears so fast the drummer gotta rethink the choice. I'm not your competition. I'm the inconvenience. The unexpected variable destroying your convenience. You came with a hook. I came with a thesis. You came with confidence. I came with reasons. You came with a persona. I came with the person underneath it. That's why the bars hit different. You can't fake fingerprints. I can smell insecurity through a microphone cable, hear a manufactured image before the first syllable is stable. So talk that shit. Please. Give me something to dismantle. I'll turn your strongest little statement into decorative examples. I don't need a crown. I don't need a throne. I don't need somebody yelling that I'm “next” on a phone. Put me in a room with a beat and leave me alone. I'll build a reputation out of every bar I've ever thrown. That's Whiteside. No apology. No permission. No pretending I'm somebody else's definition. You wanted hardcore? Here's the condition: If the pen ain't sharp— Don't bring it to the competition. [FINAL HOOK] Talk that shit, I'ma talk right back, Put your whole little fantasy flat on its back, You can type all day, I don't care about that, Put a beat in front of me— Watch me handle the track. Talk that shit, better make it worth hearing, I'm allergic to weak bars and manufactured appearances, I walk in calm, leave the whole room reconsidering— You thought I was finished? That's fucking hilarious. [OUTRO] Talk that shit. WHIIIIITESIIIIIDE! Scratch. Run it back. I wasn't finished.