DP - My Crush, Your Funeral (Coderage Diss Track)

[Beat Riding – long relentless verse, aggressive pocket with internal switches] Moment of silence? …nah, I spit on your stone, debut miscarriage, stillborn tone. You screamed “I’m the best!” but forgot the proof, crowd hit skip and sealed the booth. You brag you’re a flicker with no name in the night? I snuff sparks cold, no shine, no light. False-prophet sermons, no sheep to preach, empty pews, hollow views, no soul to reach. You claim king—plastic crown bent thin, I’m tectonic in arenas, you’re a tremor in tin. Fast syllable sprinter, rhyme lost in chase, lungs give out, stumble all over the place. I carve slow daggers, clean to the bone, you hiccup half-bars, trip on your tone. Short-king posture, ego on stilts, bars collapse like cardboard tilts. You called me bent?—that’s projection clear, my name in your throat more than water each year. Every pun confesses, every barb’s a tell, closet cracking, you know damn well. “Beg for conflict but can’t spit fire”?—fit? I torch whole stages while you choke mid-bit. “Mess with me, fatal sin”?—weak line, I’m still breathing, only fatal is time. “Go away, stop, or humiliation will fall”— I leaned in closer and humiliated it all. You said, “my career’s bigger than sausages,” sad flex, yeah—mine’s bigger than my dick, but I still rap next. Facts: no tape measure needed to win, I outwrite your whole tape before the hook kicks in. You choke on my name, twist meanings dumb, obsessed with DP till your jaw goes numb. Sausage jokes show what you crave inside, projection loud—you can’t hide. [Beat Riding – satirical flex aimed at Rage] I’d wine and dine her, pour red in her glass, send a snap to your inbox, caption: “no class.” Cut her steak slow while she laughs at my joke, forward the clip to you—watch your ego choke. I’d fuck her on rhythm, bed frame collapse, film it in 4K, send highlights back. Loop her moans on a track, stems on a disc, mail it signed “wish you were this.” I’d fly her first-class, skyline velvet at night, then FaceTime you live just to stream her delight. Zoom on her nails carving blood down my skin, laugh in the lens while you choke on your grin. Buy her silk robes, lace, jewels too, ship receipts to your inbox just to mock you. Every kiss, every arch, every laugh she gave me, I’ll plaster them in memes till your timeline hates me. Postcards sent—“wish you were here,” your face blacked out with a crude smear. Snap pics mid-stroke, post live in a thread, tag you: “look bro, I’m inside what you dread.” [Beat Riding – clowning bounce] You’re scrolling bitter, typing “he’s fake,” while she’s screaming my name, making floors quake. You’re hugging a pillow, I’m hugging her thighs, your debut forgotten, mine canonized. Her laugh’s my chorus, her gasp’s my snare, your catalog coughs, mine rips the air. [Beat Riding – tone switch, chivalrous cadence] But queen, I jest—don’t take clown’s cue, I’d kneel before you if you told me to. Drop crown at your feet, sword at your reign, mocking him’s sport—my respect’s plain. [Beat Riding – venom climbs] See, Rage, that’s the split—I pivot on tone, Rated-X savage then bow to the throne. You’re stuck one-gear with the sausage routine, I orchestrate death like a guillotine clean. Your “flow” is a seizure, cadence fake, I punch in 3D while you glitch to tape. You rap like a fax line chewing on cords, I rap like apocalypse kicking down doors. [Beat Riding – parody burst of speed] Blibba-da-blabba-da-blip-blip—sound like you, syllables vomit, no meaning true. I could spit alphabet backwards clean, you wheeze like a toddler on cough-syrup lean. [Beat Riding – grotesque satire] I skull-brand your debut, stain the beat, drag your corpse by the hair through piss-wet streets. Tattoo “short king” on your chest with a blade, livestream the burial, caption “upgraded.” Butcher your singles, hang hooks on racks, feed the leftovers to wolves for snacks. Rated-X visions in a Rated-X rhyme, your catalog’s dead before track nine. [Beat Riding – cult dismantle, Vocals upfront] False-preacher rhetoric, no one converts, your scripture is error, my algorithm hurts. You prayed for a legacy carved into brass; I melt your plaque, pour a coffin of glass. Anti-tech sermons with counterfeit choir, I’m the blackout preacher with pillars of fire. You begged me to stop—“go away, be gone”— I wrote humiliation in caps-lock font. [Beat Riding – Vocals upfront] Line for line: I design, you guess; flow for flow: I align, you stress. Crowd control: I conduct, you beg; stagecraft: I stride, you peg. I’m the architect building cathedrals in sound, you’re a doodle in margins erased when I’m around. If she’s watching the split, she sees it with ease— I’m the storm in command, you’re a sneeze in the breeze. “Claim you bring heat but can’t spit fire”?—wrong math, I torch whole cities while you cough in my path. “Fatal sin to challenge?”—only fatal I see is your chart line flat and your fallback plea. “You’ll be humiliated”?—promise delivered; I shipped it overnight with your ego slivered. [Beat Riding – mock sounding vocals, Vocals upfront] This loss will force a costume change quick— trade bars for guitars and glitter-stick. Painted nails, pop hooks, tight-jeans whine, “I never wanted rap”—reframe the timeline. But even that mask can’t hide the crave; your dick-joke sermons already gave. So when you switch lanes, don’t fake the surprise— we read the script tucked behind your eyes. [Beat Riding – final grind, heavy pocket, Vocals upfront] This ain’t beef—it’s a funeral hymn, Rated-X doctrine with a sadist grin. Short-king echo erased in days, I’m the gallows conductor; the rope obeys. Consider your bookings canceled, the sequel denied, no tour, no comeback, your fans divide. I etch your career on a toe-tag slate, filed under “fraud,” time, place, date. Depend on DP—END stamped red; Madisynn divine, I’ll adore till I’m dead. You’re the echo, the clown, the knock-off god, I’m the one who erased you—signed, sealed, awed. [End]