CODIS

FREAKSHOW RECORDS PRESENTS CODIS VALKORY MIXED BY ZAMMO @the_valkory @mackzammo #freakshowrecords #valscodis #zammoscodis @rapfame_ar_team @rapfame_official CODIS is a cold-room crime film in audio form — a surgical lyricist stalking beats like a forensic ghost. Every bar is evidence, every metaphor a clean kill, leaving no fingerprints but the echo. Precision over chaos, silence between strikes — this isn’t shock value, it’s calculated craft. A track where hip-hop becomes a crime scene, and the DNA always comes back lethal. Hannibal lecter the quiet type with the pen in the knife drawer, A lyrical cannibal starving find another victim to procure Words cut deep Im like Versace gonna leave this couture Step in my mind and take the crime scene detour, Every rhyme lined up like victim's on a kill tour No mercy syllables split like blocked arteries on a fat whore Flow so cold, armed robbery artistry on a Swiss guarantor They call me a murderer when the beat flatlines, But it’s really just precision when I craft rhymes. All those Late nights stalkin’ beats rhythm and bass, Like Dexter Mirgan Gloves on leave no prints leave no trace. Just Another verse down and another closed case, My notebook’s full of these corpses now with no face Step in the booth, yellow tape round the mic, Lights flicker low, soundboard lookin’ like a heist. Chalk lines on the floor where the beat got dropped, Engineer whisper, “Yo, this gotta stop.” But I’m cold-blooded — headphones my gloves, Fingerprints erased, just bass and drums. Every rhyme’s evidence, syllables tight, Detectives replayin’ what I laid last night. They can’t trace me — I vanish in the reverb, Killin’ quietly, movin’ on each word. Left my tag on the track, that’s my callin’ card, Signed “R.I.P. — another beat scarred.” body competition, toe-tags on they dreams, I’m the monster in the booth, born outta screams. Every MC that steps in my lane get erased, I turn a cipher to a coffin with that look on my face. Bars so lethal, I don’t even need aim, Each metaphor explode — remember the name. They drop mixtapes, I drop autopsies, I’m what happens when hip-hop gets a proxy. Kill the noise, resurrect the craft, Serial with the syllables, feel my wrath. They spittin’ nursery rhymes, I’m spittin’ eulogies, Murderin’ the beat — that’s true artistry.