Mouth Full of Brass

[INTRO] Yeah... Camo. Carhartt. Diamond watch. You already know this is gonna be a problem. WHIIIIITESIIIIIDE! [HOOK] Mouth full of brass, but the words hit harder, Work shirt on, still talk like a boss starter, Gold on the wrist while the boots look battered, I don't need a spotlight— I make the room matter. Mouth full of brass, every sentence got weight, Weak rappers talk big till the verse gets played, I bring that old-school pressure with a modern-day face— You can talk all night. I got bars for days. [VERSE 1] I walk in looking like I just got off a job, Then the jewelry starts shining and confusing everybody's thoughts. “Who is this?” The answer depends. You want the clothes? Blue-collar. You want the wrist? Rose-gold. You want the mouth? Problem. I don't fit neatly in a category. That's intentional. I like contradictions. Makes the character dimensional. I can look like I'm fixing somebody's transmission while discussing multisyllabic rhyme composition. That's range. I got a toolbox full of punchlines. A whole drawer dedicated to bad timing. Another one labeled “shit I probably shouldn't say.” Then one labeled “say it anyway.” That's the drawer I use the most. I got a dark sense of humor and an even darker beat, so when the bass starts crawling, everybody move their feet. I don't need to fake menace. My voice got enough mileage to make a calm sentence sound like a warning. And if the verse needs ammunition? I load it with language. Every rhyme a cartridge in the metaphorical chamber. No instructions. No tutorial. Just wordplay getting heavier. [HOOK] Mouth full of brass, but the words hit harder, Work shirt on, still talk like a boss starter, Gold on the wrist while the boots look battered, I don't need a spotlight— I make the room matter. Mouth full of brass, every sentence got weight, Weak rappers talk big till the verse gets played, I bring that old-school pressure with a modern-day face— You can talk all night. I got bars for days. [VERSE 2] You rappers got confidence. Cool. I got evidence. Every verse I release is another piece of precedent. You got a thousand little captions about how you're dangerous. I got a thousand little reasons not to confuse entertainment with actual capability. I know how to fight. I know how to work. I know how to take a bad situation and keep my head when somebody else starts to jerk. That's not a threat. That's a character trait. The same hands that know pressure know how to build, repair and create. And when the pen gets involved? Different kind of impact. I don't swing wild. I place every line where the beat can't dodge it. That's why the snare sounds nervous when I start talking. I can make a punchline so clean you don't realize you got punched until the record's over. That's art. Not violence. Precision. The best battle rappers don't need to scream. They need positioning. Give me one opening and I'll turn it into a whole composition. You brought one punchline? I brought an entire exhibition. [BRIDGE] Brass on the beat. Steel in the voice. Gold on the wrist. Still making the choice— to let the pen do the talking. [VERSE 3] I'm a walking contradiction with a microphone addiction, blue-collar diction mixed with high-definition ambition. I can talk shit elegantly. That's a skill. Turn disrespect into literature and make the literature sound ill. I don't need to curse every bar. Sometimes “pathetic” hits harder. Sometimes “amateur” is enough to ruin somebody's afternoon. And sometimes I just laugh. That's worse. Because if Whiteside starts laughing at your verse? You already know the funeral's coming. Not literal. Metaphorical. I'm talking about the record. Keep up. I got old-school instincts with a new-school appetite, still want the DJ cutting underneath the mic. Still want drums with enough dirt to make the speakers fight. Still want every verse to sound dangerous without needing to shout. That's the culture I respect. That's the standard I chase. Not somebody else's image. My own lane. My own face. My own cadence. So if you hear this and think I'm talking about you— Maybe. Maybe not. If the shoe fits, don't blame the rapper. Lace it. WHIIIIITESIIIIIDE! [FINAL HOOK] Mouth full of brass, but the words hit harder, Work shirt on, still talk like a boss starter, Gold on the wrist while the boots look battered, I don't need a spotlight— I make the room matter. Mouth full of brass, every sentence got weight, Weak rappers talk big till the verse gets played, I bring that old-school pressure with a modern-day face— You can talk all night. I got bars for days. [OUTRO] Camo. Carhartt. Gold. Brass. Pen. That's enough. WHIIIIITESIIIIIDE!