I’m the ghost in your codec, glitch in your playback—
one bar, one shot, one body, no playback.
Your crown’s made of tinfoil, rip it off, ball it, score—
three points from half-court, backboard splattered with your lore.
I’ma copyright your pulse, sue you for breathing my cadence,
leave your label headless—Kamikaze drone in their playlists.
You tweet like you’re Titan, I screenshot you shrinking,
then drag the .jpeg through eight miles of ink and print it on toilet paper—
still flushing, still spinning, still grinning.