No Smoke

[Intro – Spoken, Over Fading Choir Sample] Yeah… You thought this was a game? You thought stepping to me was smart? Listen— Verse 1 I heard your little mixtape, cute, you got a couple phrases, You stitched a quilt of my old flows through your awkward phases. It's imitation flatterin' a god, is that the sentiment? Or just a hollow vessel desperate for some relevance? You talk about your struggle like you walked through Gehenna's flame, But your calluses are digital from typin' out your name. Consider this an invitation, a Socratic dialogue, I'll be the hemlock in your cup, the final epilogue. HOLD ON! [Hook – Full Choir + Bass Layer] Who want smoke with me? (Not you!) Who want smoke with me? (who!) Don't you ever, ever, EVER, Get it twisted in your mind Verse 2 Let's peel the layers back, let's play a little game of truth, Let's talk about the borrowed style you've been rockin' since your youth. That little rhythmic stutter? That's a page from Q-Tip's book. That political ambiguity? You gave Cornel West a look. That dark introspection? That's a flavor I perfected. Your whole persona is a collage of geniuses you've dissected! Look— You want validation? I give you exposure, But exposure burns quick, like a b**b in a holster. You a Photoshopped messiah, a carefully crafted mirage! And you preachin' to a choir that you paid for in an advance, A parody of passion, a puppet in the matrix! You a fraud with a budget, a caricature with cadence! WAIT! HOLD ON! [Hook – Full Choir + Bass Layer] Who want smoke with me? (Not you!) Who want smoke with me? (who!) Don't you ever, ever, EVER, Get it twisted in your mind Verse 3 [Complete silence for two full beats. Then, a beautiful but somber b**t fades in] I looked at you and I saw… I saw the hunger that I once had, But yours was for the glory, mine was just to not end up sad, or mad, or in a box, or another statistic on a page, Mine was a righteous fury locked inside a mortal cage. You wanted the applause, the adoration, the light, I just wanted to make it through another godforsaken night. And maybe that's the tragedy in this whole, sad affair, You're just a casualty of a w*r you were never prepared Outro [somber b**t fading out] Dear Jean-Phillippe Frederick Wijnholds… this is the ink that I spill for the d**d. This is the final Lord's Prayer recited over your hospital bed. That name is a mouthful, a tapestry of noble sound, Stitched together just to cover up the hollow ground you're walking 'round. Jean-Phillippe… it sounds like wine glasses and gentrified art, A name designed to hide the fact you never had a heart. Frederick… the sound of old money and a trust you didn't earn, A legacy of privilege, a lesson you refuse to learn. And Wijnholds… I won't even try, it's irrelevant to the plot, You're just a complicated name for a simple, empty spot. You thought you'd challenge God, you brought your ego to the f***t, A flickering candle trying to outshine the endless night.