The God of Critique

Yo, yo, listen Nick, step up, let’s talk face to face, You’re the king of complaints, but ain't winnin’ no race. AI-made beats with no soul in the mix, Call yourself a critic, but you ain’t made sh[BEEP]. You swear you’re the judge of what’s fire, what’s lame, But your taste’s got no range, every track sounds the same. You trash real artists, but here’s the twist— You ain't dropped one banger that anyone missed. Oh, *Suno Music Show*, what a glorious name, Sounds like a bootleg infomercial, bro, stay in your lane. Talkin’ like a prophet but ain't dropped a hit, Your whole catalog’s a blur, AI-generated spit. Bro, tune into Seb: take a class - learn to speak, ‘Cause right now, your English sounds like corrupted technique. Fast-forwarding words like a glitch in the tape, Even subtitles be like, "Nah, bro, we can't translate." "Your track’s garbage"? Bro, quit the act, You was just in my inbox saying, "Yo, that track slaps!" Got my songs in your playlist, bumpin’ 'em too, But when it’s public, you flip like a switch—fake as you. Oh, and I wanna “profit” off your ten views? Bro, you stream for ghosts and imaginary crews. Meanwhile, your cash flow’s built on a scam, Monetizing songs that ain’t even your jams. Nick, Nick, the god of critique, Spewin’ AI trash while you claim you’re unique. Four fans and a dream, but your vision is blurry, Your music’s so weak it makes elevators worry. Keep spinnin’ them Afrobeats, Dancehall on loop, Every track sounds the same, like a copy-paste fluke. No identity, no soul, just factory stock, Even AI’s like, "Damn, bro, switch up the stock!" Yeah, you play good music, credit where it’s due, But that just means your whole show relies on what others do. You ride on real talent, leechin’ off their shine, Without them, your stream's just dead air and rewind. Callin’ real music trash, but deep down you know, If I drop, people listen, when you drop, they go. All that hate’s just disguise for a fan in denial, You just mad that my style got people goin’ wild. And what’s with your ego, bro? Chill with the flex, Your fans aren’t loyal—they just haven’t hit “Next.” Thinkin’ you’re supreme? Man, stop the charade, You’re the Dollar Store version of a discount parade. Nick, Nick, the god of critique, Spewin’ AI trash while you claim you’re unique. Four fans and a dream, but your vision is blurry, Your music’s so weak it makes elevators worry. “Artists need to quit"? Nah, Nick, take your advice, Maybe start a podcast where you ramble 'bout life. Callin’ masterpieces trash? Oh, that’s rich, The only thing you’ve mastered is being a b[BEEP]. Fast talk, no substance, you’re a broken machine, Even your AI can’t process what the hell you mean. Droppin’ garbage on repeat, but want the world to cheer? Your music’s like your fanbase—barely there. So here’s your diss track, Nick, hope you take it to heart, Maybe learn some humility—it’s a f[BEEP]in’ art. I’ll keep makin’ hits while you rot in your bubble, Call me demolition, Nick—you’re rubble. Game Over.