Brand, you have no band(s)
Look around, there are no fans
You say you’re in Bullen 2s
But your skills are equivalent to poo
Yo Brand, on the court, you're a certified mess,
Missin’ wide open layups, causin' your own stress.
You dribble like your hands ain't got no clue,
Ball hit the ground like it’s runnin' from you.
Your jumper’s broke, it's begging for help,
You s***t so badly, the ball fouled itself.
You say you're a baller? That’s pure delusion,
Only highlight reels your ankles.
No Brand, no game, no swag, no shine,
Hairline runnin’ like it’s tryna do time.
No style, no spark, just awkward and fake,
And your dad dipped out like he couldn't stay awake.
You blend in a crowd, like salt with no taste,
Talkin’ all loud, but still leave no trace.
Tryna act deep, but you surface-level,
Got less soul than a broken pedal.
Ain’t got drip, just sweat on your face,
Your whole vibe’s dry like your barber’s grace.
That fade’s so far, it packed up and fled,
Like Gabe when he ghosted and left you on read.
You flex for the ‘Gram, but nobody’s watchin’,
Talk like a king, but the throne ain’t rockin’.
No presence, no edge, you just there, no doubt,
Even silence louder than the words from your mouth.
No Brand, no flame, no real in your name,
Just echoes of Gabe and a whole lotta shame.
No bounce, no bar, no part in the plan,
You're not even a Brand… you a knockoff man.
So keep talkin' slick, keep playin' pretend,
But I already wrote your L from beginning to end.
Next time you hoop — just sit in the stands,
‘Cause life crossed you over… with no hands.