[Intro] Yeah… lights out. I don’t battle, I autopsy. You already cold on the table. [Verse 1] I’m the scalpel with a personality disorder, Chopping syllables like limbs in a morgue freezer. Your bars are rigor mortis, stiff and outdated, I inject the flow with formaldehyde, leave your legacy contaminated. See the blood pattern? That’s my signature spray, Arterial arcs painting abstract art while your crew decays. I don’t punchlines, I puncture lungs, collapse the cage, Watch you gasp for air like a fish on a concrete stage. Nightmare fuel in the booth, I sleepwalk through homicide, Dream in 4K of your teeth scattered across the linoleum side. You talk tough till the lights cut, then the silence gets intimate, I whisper every regret you buried while I dissect the sentiment. Multi-syllable murder, internal rhymes stacking like body bags, I’m the autopsy report you can’t close, pages dripping red tags. Your whole career is a cold case I keep reopening for sport, I don’t need a weapon, the cadence alone is the killing report. [Hook] Step in the circle, leave in a body bag I don’t spar, I harvest, leave the carcass tagged Blown-out bass crushing ribs while the flow digs deep Horrorcore drill, I bury you while you still sleep Arrogant? Nah, just accurate, I’m the last thing you see When the lights go black and the nightmare’s free [Verse 2] I’m the blackout in your peripheral, the static in the feed, Every bar a vivisection, I peel the skin back to watch you bleed. You claim streets, I claim the morgue shift, night after night, Stacking corpses in the freezer while your ego fights for light. Intricate schemes tighter than tourniquets around a severed limb, I rhyme in layers: surface threat, subsurface trauma, then the final hymn— No. No hymns. Just the wet sound of your last breath catching, I loop that sample under the 808 till the whole track’s matching. Your punchlines are blunt force, mine are surgical precision, I map every nerve ending then sever the connection with derision. Battle rap? Cute. I treat it like organ harvesting for profit, Take what I need, discard the rest, leave the cavity open and toxic. You ever felt a flow so cold it freezes the blood mid-pump? That’s me. Heart stops. Brain still conscious. Watch the panic jump. I don’t need demons, I am the psychosis walking upright, Writing your epitaph in real time while the bassline bites. [Bridge] Count the bodies in the rhyme scheme Every internal’s a new crime scene You talk noise, I talk silence after the scream Blown-out low end making the floorboards dream [Verse 3] Last verse, last rites—except there aren’t any, just the dirt, I pack the earth over your name and still keep the flow on alert. Arrogance is just self-awareness with better aim, I see the target, I hit the target, I erase the target’s claim. Horrorcore means I make the nightmare wear your face, Drill means the tempo never lets the body rest in place. Sick flow? Try terminal. Intricate? Try labyrinthine, You get lost inside the bars and never find the exit line. I don’t come to battle, I come to close the casket lid, Drop the final couplet and leave the room while the silence is still rigid. [Outro] Lights stay out. You stay down. Bass still crushing.
