Auto-Tune howlin’ out the tin roof,
I’m the G-O-A-T, got the Ghost in the rearview.
Weezy in the passenger, blunt bigger than a statute,
codeine in the chalice, turn the coupe to a chapel.
Pain on the bridge, I’m a sermon and a syllable,
Wayne on the verse—every bar a crematorium.
Came from the swamp, left the mud on the Grammy,
still hustle every beat like the rent due in Miami.
I’m the glitch in your get-rich, the crown in the mosh pit;
if talk is cheap, then my goat chat cost a spaceship.