(Verse 1) Put your hands where I can see 'em: on the truth, not the trigger Everybody's got a scope on a face, turn a clip to a ticker You don't get a halo for a hollow tip Twitter When a father hits the floor, you ain't a winner, you're withered That ain't a punchline, that's a daughter with a folded flag A son in the back row, clutchin' a photo and a dog tag But you meme it, loop the clip, laugh 'cause the frame froze Overlaid text on his last breath like it's game shows You got a crosshair for a conscience, reticle for empathy Your morality's a thread count, all replies and mentions be Pressing send like it's cockin' back a hammer made of jealousy Then call it "free speech" when it's basically accessory This ain't a red-blue beef, it's blood over belief Grief don't check party lines before it pulls up a seat Orphans don't get comfort from your clever critiques They just stare at the door hopin' dad still got a key (Hook) This is pistol point, I hold you at verbal gunpoint Hands up, no lies, every bar's a checkpoint Not a meme, not a gif, this is breath and bone joint You don't celebrate a bullet when a parent's at the pinpoint This is pistol point, I got you at verbal gunpoint Safety's off on the truth, see the crowd disappoint We don't cheer for a death, we don't laugh at that joint We all deserve our moms and dads— that's the fuckin' point (Verse 2) Trigger-happy with opinions, but you trigger-shy with hugs Easier to squeeze a timeline than to wean off the drugs And by "drugs" I mean the dopamine your comment section loves Hit refresh like Russian roulette every time the chamber buzzed You shared that clip of him droppin', slow-mo, cropped tight Caption: "He got what he deserved, that's that free speech life" Tell me, what's the sentence for an unapproved mic? Is it death by disagreein' or just death by your spite? Picture this: you twelve, half-asleep, caught a whiff of Marlboros in the hall That's Dad, comin' in from a night shift, dead on his feet, not the wall Ten years later, someone clips him gettin' shot mid-speech at the mall And you log in to a comment section screamin', "W, he fall!" You tell me where the justice is, 'cause I don't see a scrap I just see a bloody shirt and a screen full of caps I see a profile pic laughin' in a baseball cap That would panic in a second if death ever laughed back (Hook) This is pistol point, I hold you at verbal gunpoint Hands up, no lies, every bar's a checkpoint Not a meme, not a gif, this is breath and bone joint You don't celebrate a bullet when a parent's at the pinpoint This is pistol point, I got you at verbal gunpoint Safety's off on the truth, see the crowd disappoint We don't cheer for a death, we don't laugh at that joint We all deserve our moms and dads— that's the fuckin' point (Bridge) Put your likes in the air if you ever lost a friend Now imagine that loss looped, replayed to no end As a punchline. A soundbite. A stitch. A trend. Tell me, if that's "justice," what the hell is revenge? No dad should be a hashtag, no mom should be a meme No kid should learn about the death from a for-you screen They deserve kitchen table talks, bedtimes, routines Not a freeze-frame still of a bullet in-between (Verse 3) I'm pointin' syllables like silencers, I'm deadly with diction I'll muzzle-flash a metaphor, then etch your contradictions You claim life's sacred till an enemy's in the depiction Then you photoshop a halo off and call it non-fiction That bullet don't check ideology before it exits the steel It don't see "conservative" or "liberal," just lung tissue and feel It don't swipe right for your team, it just swipe right through your ribs And rips a father right out of his kid's crib— that's what it did (Outro) Holster your hashtags, lock back your laughs If you really hate violence, then don't clap for the blast If you really love justice, don't rejoice in the past Where a father hit the ground and a kid heard it last This is pistol point— You ain't leavin' till you answer what you're rootin' for: The bullet in his chest, or the right to explore A world where nobody dies for what they said on the floor Where we bury the beef, not the people we war.
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