Mousetrap

Gimme your focus, I need your eyes to the front
‘Cause we’ve got some things to clear up
We’ve got some stuff to discuss
That should’ve been kept between us

You’ve had your turn now for months
And I think we’ve all heard enough
Just listen and don’t interrupt
'Cause I’m only saying this once

Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Who are you?
Seriously, who in the actual living fucking fuck even are you?
‘Cause I was expecting a tiger who would enter with praise and applause as his soundtrack
What I got was a house cat chasing its tail when it’s caught in a mousetrap

Can’t fit a cookie into that mouthful of names that you shouldn’t be mentioning
Kid, you’re a rookie, and you’re playing a game, but you’re facing a veteran
When I’m on the field, you’re on the bench, I’m kidding, you sit in the bleachers
Talking your shit when you aren’t kissing my ass or begging for features

Surrounded by creatures, leeches, each of you rapping on top of your vocals
Y’all put less time in your rhymes than you do jerking each other off on your socials
Meanwhile I’ve been mobile, logging thousands of miles and plenty of scars
Your crew’s like the flag of Japan: there aren’t any stars, there aren’t any bars

On stage with your eyes shut with your head down with the mic cupped
Till it feeds back and you’re going like you’re the first act opening an open mic
Well, shit, now I’m feeling bad. Believe me, I mean it, I really am
‘Cause I’m wasting my breath on some silly man whose fanbase couldn’t fill up a minivan

You howl at the moon, I burst your balloon, you’re a barker who thinks he’s a biter
It’s safe to assume that I filled up rooms when you were still filling your diapers
You’ve ridden my tails, but since that has failed, you’re pissy and trying to fight
I cut my teeth and my nails blazing these trails you’re trying to ride on your trike

So tired, so bitter, in all your tracks, no passion
No fire, like your Tindr, you’re all gas, no matches
Bad at your lyrics, bad at your mixes, bad at your hooks and your bridges
Bad at whatever it is Too Big for His Britches here’s calling his business

Get out of my office, this is for bosses, not for your struggling looks
Go get a new hobby, go sit in the lobby where you’ll find some coloring books
What, were you drinking? What were you thinking? Coming at me for a hit?
Kid, I am the sweetest, I’m Reese’s Pieces, you’re feces, you pieces of shit

Fuck you, fuck your crew, and fuck every half-assed thing you do
Fuck you, you deplorable tourist for never caring about who came before us
Fuck you for never using a thesaurus, you are hip hop’s used Ford Taurus
Fuck you ‘cause you forced this, fuck this song, fuck doing a chorus

Fuck all that you’ve ever loved or believed in or whatever
Till you’re dead and gone, till the end of time, for always and forever
Crawl back to your lab and when all of your sycophants ask you what happened to you
Just tell them you’re finished ‘cause some middle-aged white dude handed your ass to you