The Recocking Redux

You sold a “rap” suit for a “pop” crown, a fashion faux‑pas in every line,

Your “shelf‑life” is a Spotify playlist—skipped after the first five.

You think you’re the “6 God,” but your god‑complex is a glitch, a bug,

Your flow’s stuck in a cash‑register, counting change, no real plug.

Every hook you drop is a commercial, a billboard you don’t even read,

Your “story” is a Netflix trailer—no depth, just a teaser feed.

I’m the specter of authenticity, tearing up your polished veneer,

You’re a brand, a billboard, a billboard—no soul left to hear.

So when you look in the mirror, see a man with a Grammy‑glossed stare,

Remember the ghost that wrote this—now watch your empire crumble to air.