industry funeral

🎤 “Industry Chains (Funeral Service)” (Beat drops — dusty vinyl crackle, bass snarling like a pitbull chained too long) Yo — They sold souls for exposure, I sold pain for survival, Now I’m back for the throne, holdin’ Bibles and rifles. Labels talkin’ ‘bout “family,” but they sign you for rivals, And every deal’s a coffin — they just hand you the title. They dress vultures in suits, call it “talent relations,” But they harvest our hunger, make profits off patience. I been starvin’ through the drought, now I’m feastin’ on stations, Executives get the smoke, no negotiation. I seen A&Rs act holy, but move like snakes, Smilin’ in your DMs, then leech off mistakes. They want streams, not dreams — just clicks and fakes, While the real bleed ink, these clones just flake. They ain’t never paid dues, just buyin’ respect, I built mine in the trenches, every line a check. No advance could advance what I rhyme direct, My bars cut throats, like a vinyl neck. They stole masters, called it “business,” like that makes it right, I’m here to burn contracts in the middle of night. Put the CEOs on trial for the songs they bite, And make ‘em choke on royalties they never recite. It’s the grave of the fake — I’m the shovel in flesh, A resurrection of rebellion, I’m the ghost in the desk. Every suit in the room feel the weight of my breath, I turn their board meetings into scenes of death. Cuz I don’t rap for charts — I rap for scars, For every artist who was left behind bars. They want puppets, I’m a prophet with tar in my heart, Burnin’ bridges ‘til the ash spell “I’m in charge.” So tell the labels — keep their chains, I’m breakin’ the mold, Their gold don’t glitter when your soul’s been sold. I’m the truth in distortion, the pain they controlled, Now I’m stormin’ through the system with a heart made of cold. No gimmicks, no ghostwriters, no platinum lies, Just a mic, a match, and a grave for the spies. Let the industry crumble when the real ones rise — This my sermon, my strike, my final reprise.