The Reckoning is Here

You claim you’re the mogul, but you’re just a counterfeit flash of cash

Your empire’s built on hype, a circus act that never knows how to really play

You peddle empty beats, a hollow echo that’s as thin as stale bread

While you chase clout on Instagram, you’re just a meme that can’t even stay

Your “brand” is a collage of logos, a tattoo that fades faster than fresh air

You brag about “Going Bad,” but every track you touch just drops the same tired way

You’re a ghost of a ghost, a relic that pretends to be future‑forward

The only thing you can sell is nostalgia, a rerun that’s stuck on repeat

You threw a “Bad Boy” at the world, but the only thing bruised is your own ego

Your verses sound like corporate jingles, designed to market a bland playlist beat