Karma’s Kalashnikov

[Verse 1: Grim Tone Begins] They worship false gods, I’m the storm in their temple, Crucify my verse, still I resurrect like a symbol, I’m the pen in the pistol, Picasso with a stencil, Triple entendres coded deep in each syllable. Blind devotion got ‘em choked in illusion’s rope, Brahma gave ‘em logic but they sipping on hope, They read scriptures, still gundas slit throats, Like Cain with the cane, I disable false oaths. Karma on a loop like vinyl in a DJ’s crate, I break faith with facts, leave their leaders irate, They chant names loud, but fear my hate, ‘Cause I write revelations straight on Heaven’s gate. --- [Wordplay Mayhem Begins] I’m the S H A M, B H U in the booth, But I break “Shambhu” down, make it triple in truth— “S H” for silence, “A M” for the dawn, “B H U” for the bullets where your brain gets drawn. I'm that D E M O N inside democracy, Preach peace, but I’m armed like hypocrisy, Your prophets wear Prada, mine preach poverty, I baptize bars in b***d, no modesty. --- [International Switch-up, Fast Voice] Switch lanes like Schumi in Monaco’s mist, My bars hit harder than Ali’s fist, Encrypted like Snowden with a h****n’s list, And I b**b your logic like a terrorist twist. — [Back to Core Voice – DARKER] I got verses that bend like Beckham’s curve, But I don’t k**k balls, I k**k your nerve, In the Vatican vaults, I hack divine scripts, Turn gospels to graffiti — I write eclipse. S***t a pope with a pen, I ain’t holy, But my bars baptize your sins slowly, From Rome to Ram Mandir — same phony, It’s thugs in robes or saffron, still lonely. --- [Underworld Deconstruction Begins] Underworld got codes, I decrypt in rhyme, Your Don wears Gucci, I measure time— With a Rolex gifted by a c****e in crime, And a graveyard b**t that skips the chime. Mumbai to Medellín — it's all the same, They trade fear for faith, barter bullets for fame, But my lines so raw, they snort 'em in vein, Barrel to head, but I aim for brain. --- [End Game Mode: Double Entendre Barrage] Mirror, mirror, on the mosque, who’s real? Not the ones with blades, but the ones with zeal. Not the ones with guns, but the ones with feel, I skin gods alive — no faith, just steel. Burnin' in Babylon, I spit brimstone, Got G O D’s number on my flip phone, He said, “Son, the world’s gone off-zone,” I said, “I’ll rhyme 'em back, one verse alone.” --- [Final K**L SHOT: Breakdown in 4-Lined Mayhem Style] (Line 1:) “I rhyme d**d presidents with coffin’s evidence” (Line 2:) “Turn a spiritual preacher to a b**b’s resonance” (Line 3:) “Your idol’s idol is fake like stocked medicine” (Line 4:) “I’m the blackout in truth, no shock regiment.” [Outro Whisper Tone, Bone-Chilling] So next time you chant in faith’s parade, Know I’m lurking in your God’s charade, I’m the echo in the martyr’s fade, I’m the truth, and truth? It don’t get swayed.