Bodies? Where? (Diss)

Soulful, neo funk, neo soul, futuristic RnB Grooves, ratchet romance, bouncy bass, Chicago mumble rap, Atlanta mumble rap, west coast mumble rap, 808’s, Street vibes, chiptune rap, autotune, grimy, swagger

V4.5+

Can’t count likes, can’t count subs (nah nah),
Math don’t work when the crowd don’t love. (skrrt!)
Say it ain’t me, but you play my song… (you did!)
Projection too loud, caught you singin’ along. (hahaha!)

Heard you sayin’ in your verse, “not a diss, just pain,”
But your whole damn pen got my face in the frame.
You stream my drop, girl, thanks for the play, 
Funny how you shook by a song not about you in any way. (whoops!)
Mic smell cursed? Naw, that’s nerves n sweat.
You spit like debt collectors breathing down necks.
You bury truth? Nah, you buryin’ views,
My followers stack while you fumble the news.
Look, 
Your bars all stiff, mine bend like gymnasts,
My lines get likes, yours die mid-sentence.
You say “void” listenin’, that void is your fans,
Click, skip, scroll, (BYE!), no replays, cuz they know your whole style is bland.
Why you mad? Why you pressed? When you’re the one who started this nonsense. 
And for those listenin’, just a short reminder, BoomBoom’s just mad cuz I dissed AI writers.
My disses and rhymes are top shelf, goin’ against me was bad for your health, cuz your actions speak volumes of exposing’ yourself.

Math off, numbers don’t lie (numbers don’t lie),
My feed climb, yours flatline. (flatline!)
Say it ain’t me, but you heard my joint,
Caught red handed, girl, what’s the point? (HA!)

See, I don’t diss for the sport, I just laugh in the gym,
While you pacing in your room, tryna flex with a diss.
“Bodies in the booth,” nah, clout seeker’s  pitch, 
You auditioned for a war but you and your chatbot boyfriend soundin’ like a bitch.
Wait, (scratch that, no bitch bar, hold up),
You sound like a wannabe with a cheap cold cut.
Room tone louder than your chest when you blow up,
Engineer sighed, “Yo, this is tough cuz you both really suck” (haha!)
Numbers game, 
You can’t add, subtract, or divide,
My likes multiply while your buzz just died.
You talk fear, stress, drama in loops,
I just post one track, crowd raise the roof. (woo!)

Math class failed, check the stats quick (check it!),
Followers up, you ain’t matching that shit. (nope!)
You call it art, but it sound like stress,
Confession booth rap, say it with ya chest! (HAH!)

Yo, 
You said “mirror twitch,” girl, mirror don’t lie,
It reflectin’ that your bars dry-heave on mics.
Said “compressor can’t crush”? Nah, your compressor asleep,
Cuz there’s nothin’ to compress when the content weak.
Why you duckin’ in the booth, eyes glued to the floor?
(Shy girl rap, ayy!) crowd snores galore.
You rap “like a queen” but the kingdom’s fake,
Plastic throne from the dollar store, easy to break.
My math too slick, do the ratio quick:
One track of mine drown your whole click.
Say my name not once, but the guilt came loud,
You bitchin’ in every line to the crickets in your crowd.

Likes don’t lie, followers proof, (yeah!)
You rap like you’re battered and bruised and always cryin’ the blues. (Boo who!)
Say it ain’t shade, but the shade feel thick,
If the shoe don’t fit, why you limpin’ in it? (ooooh!)

(Ba-da-da, skrrt skrrt!)
You snack on trauma, I feast on vibes,
Your whole tape sound like stage fright live.
Talkin’ copper and ash? Girl, you good?
Take a deep breath, touch grass in the hood. (touch grass!)
I drop gems, you drop haunted house noise,
Crowds wants to be uplifted, not paranoid toys.
Say “pressure clings,” nah, pressure my ass,
While your pen bench less than your crack pipe made of glass.

Math off, pride gone, facts don’t bend,
You rap confessions, I rap wins.
Say it ain’t shade, but the truth’s that thick,
You heard my drop and confessed to listinin’ to it.
Math off, math off, can’t add that score,
Your subs don’t climb, mine kick down doors.
Bodies in the booth? Girl, bodies where?
Only ghost in the mix is your fanbase there. (bye bye!)

4508/7500

(Yea yea… huh!) Bodies in the booth? Girl, stop, that’s cap. I’m the one with the bodies, your song makes me nap. Makin’ a diss track for me but didn’t bother to tag. You say I’m havin a temper tantrum screamin’, It was only that way to match the energy of the first track you made, dropped then deleted. You’re cheatin’, Why you deceivin’? The actions you’re takin’ are speakin’ of someone who’s defeated. Let’s be honest, you need to stop it. The only song you droppin’ that got any traction is the one with my name as the topic. Talkin’ ‘bout phantoms, autopsy lines, (Heh, lil’ spooky, huh?) but you shook in ya rhymes. Why you mentionin’ coffins when nobody dead? (Except your lil’ feed, ooooh) numbers said what they said. Can’t count likes, can’t count subs (nah nah), Math don’t work when the crowd don’t love. (skrrt!) Say it ain’t me, but you play my song… (you did!) Projection too loud, caught you singin’ along. (hahaha!) Heard you sayin’ in your verse, “not a diss, just pain,” But your whole damn pen got my face in the frame. You stream my drop, girl, thanks for the play, Funny how you shook by a song not about you in any way. (whoops!) Mic smell cursed? Naw, that’s nerves n sweat. You spit like debt collectors breathing down necks. You bury truth? Nah, you buryin’ views, My followers stack while you fumble the news. Look, Your bars all stiff, mine bend like gymnasts, My lines get likes, yours die mid-sentence. You say “void” listenin’, that void is your fans, Click, skip, scroll, (BYE!), no replays, cuz they know your whole style is bland. Why you mad? Why you pressed? When you’re the one who started this nonsense. And for those listenin’, just a short reminder, BoomBoom’s just mad cuz I dissed AI writers. My disses and rhymes are top shelf, goin’ against me was bad for your health, cuz your actions speak volumes of exposing’ yourself. Math off, numbers don’t lie (numbers don’t lie), My feed climb, yours flatline. (flatline!) Say it ain’t me, but you heard my joint, Caught red handed, girl, what’s the point? (HA!) See, I don’t diss for the sport, I just laugh in the gym, While you pacing in your room, tryna flex with a diss. “Bodies in the booth,” nah, clout seeker’s pitch, You auditioned for a war but you and your chatbot boyfriend soundin’ like a bitch. Wait, (scratch that, no bitch bar, hold up), You sound like a wannabe with a cheap cold cut. Room tone louder than your chest when you blow up, Engineer sighed, “Yo, this is tough cuz you both really suck” (haha!) Numbers game, You can’t add, subtract, or divide, My likes multiply while your buzz just died. You talk fear, stress, drama in loops, I just post one track, crowd raise the roof. (woo!) Math class failed, check the stats quick (check it!), Followers up, you ain’t matching that shit. (nope!) You call it art, but it sound like stress, Confession booth rap, say it with ya chest! (HAH!) Yo, You said “mirror twitch,” girl, mirror don’t lie, It reflectin’ that your bars dry-heave on mics. Said “compressor can’t crush”? Nah, your compressor asleep, Cuz there’s nothin’ to compress when the content weak. Why you duckin’ in the booth, eyes glued to the floor? (Shy girl rap, ayy!) crowd snores galore. You rap “like a queen” but the kingdom’s fake, Plastic throne from the dollar store, easy to break. My math too slick, do the ratio quick: One track of mine drown your whole click. Say my name not once, but the guilt came loud, You bitchin’ in every line to the crickets in your crowd. Likes don’t lie, followers proof, (yeah!) You rap like you’re battered and bruised and always cryin’ the blues. (Boo who!) Say it ain’t shade, but the shade feel thick, If the shoe don’t fit, why you limpin’ in it? (ooooh!) (Ba-da-da, skrrt skrrt!) You snack on trauma, I feast on vibes, Your whole tape sound like stage fright live. Talkin’ copper and ash? Girl, you good? Take a deep breath, touch grass in the hood. (touch grass!) I drop gems, you drop haunted house noise, Crowds wants to be uplifted, not paranoid toys. Say “pressure clings,” nah, pressure my ass, While your pen bench less than your crack pipe made of glass. Math off, pride gone, facts don’t bend, You rap confessions, I rap wins. Say it ain’t shade, but the truth’s that thick, You heard my drop and confessed to listinin’ to it. Math off, math off, can’t add that score, Your subs don’t climb, mine kick down doors. Bodies in the booth? Girl, bodies where? Only ghost in the mix is your fanbase there. (bye bye!)

0/500