His palms are iced, the snare cuts like wire,
One shot, one breath—napalm in the choir.
Mom’s spaghetti’s a ghost in his gut,
But the mic’s a blade and the crowd won’t shut.
Snap back—crows on the rail, clocks bleed,
He’s a stray vowel in a war of greed.
Own the void, scream till the turntables melt,
Destroy or be destroyed—whatever’s dealt.