(The first 5 people who mint a LIMITED edition, will start receiving 10% of the sales of this song) . . . Poor Abunai, veintisiete horas al día, Switchin’ between accounts, bot en sintonía. Seventy-four profiles, man, what a grind, Droppin’ praise on his own flow, lost in his mind. It’s sad, bro, every day the same script, Writin’ himself compliments, “Yeah, that’s it!” Sounds faker than his bars, even in his head, If he could at least rhyme, he’d be better read. But there he goes, hypin’ his own name, Sayin’ his style is “art” or “flame.” It’s like watchin’ someone clap for himself all day, A loop of fake love, just lost in the sway. And while he multiplies those cardboard likes, We sit back, laughin’ at his hype. ’Cause in the end, the web just remembers the joke, Of a recycled flow, lost in its smoke. . .