EMILY'S BURNT KITCHEN

EMILY’S BURNT KITCHEN [INTRO] Welcome to the kitchen—smoke in the ceiling, Emily stepped in, now she knows what I’m dealing, Talkin’ that trash with a fake-ass grin, One verse from me and the blackout begins. You kicked down the door like you owned the damn place, Now you’re choking on smoke with that panic-struck face, The alarms start screaming, the whole room goes red, You brought a butter knife to a war in your head. [VERSE 1] Emily’s cooking? That shit got burnt, Every weak little bar got instantly turned, You came with confidence, left with concern, You wanted a battle—you got what you earned. You strutted in loud with your bargain-bin swagger, Now every fake flex is a joke on the platter, Your ego was huge, but your talent was small, One kick of the beat and you’re flat on the wall. Your flow is atrocious, your cadence is tragic, Your punchlines collapse, your whole style is plastic, You act like a menace, but honestly, damn, You’re more like a joke with a microphone stand. You talk all that shit, but the proof never lands, Your rhymes fall apart like wet cardboard hands, You’re begging for smoke, then you cough when it’s near, Now your big bad act is dissolving in fear. I’m slicing the timing, igniting the rhyme, You’re missing the beat while I’m killing the time, You fumble your words, then you stumble your stance, I’m throwing these syllables straight into a trance. I’m carving each measure, then setting the fuse, You’re losing your breath and your grip on the groove, Your whole damn attack is a half-assed charade, I’m turning your verses to ash in the shade. [HOOK] Emily’s Burnt Kitchen—smoke, smoke, smoke, Every damn bar that you wrote got broke, Talk that big shit, then choke on the beat, Step to the mic and get swept off your feet. Emily’s Burnt Kitchen—flames to the roof, Every fake-ass claim getting stripped of its proof, You came for the crown with a mouth full of lies, Now you’re coughing up ash while your whole act dies. [VERSE 2 — FAST] Quick with the diction, prediction, demolition, Your whole competition position? Malnutrition, No ammunition, weak composition, I’m flipping the rhythm with precision and vision. You’re begging for mercy while claiming you’re vicious, Your bars need a medic, your flow needs stitches, I’m snapping the pattern, attacking the track, You blink for a second, I’m already back. You’re acting dramatic, your panic is frantic, Your bars are pathetic, your flow’s automatic— Automatic? Nah, I mean painfully basic, Your whole damn performance is borderline tasteless. You rehearse that tough talk, then forget every line, Your confidence crashes right on cue every time, You’re a glitch in the system, a stain on the scene, The weakest damn threat that I’ve ever seen. I’m back with a battering, rattling pattern, You’re scattered and shattered—your confidence flatten, I’m stacking attacks while you’re lacking a track, You started the battle and can’t take it back. You’re trapped in the kitchen with nowhere to run, The timer hit zero, the damage is done, Your verses are charcoal, your pride’s in the pan, You talked like a beast, but you folded like spam. [BRIDGE] Turn up the heat, let the burners ignite, You’re losing your grip in the middle of the night, No slick little comeback, no miracle save, Just smoke, broken bars, and the mess that you made. You wanted attention, you begged for the flame, Now everybody’s laughing while they’re chanting your name, Not out of respect, not because you’re elite— They’re laughing because you got cooked in the street. [FINAL HOOK] Emily’s Burnt Kitchen—everything’s black, You brought your weak bars, I sent them right back, Smoke in the booth, hear the whole room shake, You cooked up a disaster—now eat your mistake. #Vrrrrr #Battlebar #FancySilver #Emilydownfall😆😆