Pain

[INTRO — PRESS CONFERENCE / CROWD NOISE]
REPORTER:
“What’s your prediction for the fight?”
CLUBBER:
“PAIN BITCH!”
Bell.
P...
A-I...
N...
Perfect
Alpha
Is
Nature!
Welcome to the square nickel.
---
[HOOK]
CLUBBER LANG! CLUBBER LANG!
Ain’t nobody fuckin’ wit dat nickel CLUBBER LANG!
ROCKY! ROCKY!
BITCH WANNA BE THA ROCK!
I WHOOP YOUR ASS, BOY!
Till GOD JUMPS IN! YOU BETTER PRAY, BOY!
APOLLO CREED!
APOLLO CREED!
Tell me what the fuck
a nickel really believe?
Prediction? add holy prophecy
PAIN!
They had to WRITE ME LOSING!
Hollywood bitches think you can beat me
Nickel prove it!
Had to make a fake movie ending
just to hide the conclusion!
CLUBBER LANG!
---
[VERSE 1 — THE MACHINE]
I don't dance for the camera,
I don't pose for the crowd.
Bell ring—
motherfucker,
I'm working now.
Left hand body.
Right hand head.
Every punch got an address.
Every address get read.
No wasted movement.
No pretty-boy shit.
No inspirational music
when the rib cage hit.
Rocky had heart.
I'll give Rock that.
But somebody had to tell him
where the fuck he was at.
Champion?
Maybe.
But when Clubber walked in,
the whole room changed—
and Mickey knew then.
They had the hero.
They had the crowd.
They had the music.
They had the crown.
I had two hands
and something to prove.
So Hollywood grabbed a pencil
when they saw me move.
Stallone had the pencil.
Clubber had the fist.
If you can't beat the motherfucker—
CHANGE THE SCRIPT.
---
[BREAK]
“SHUT UP, OLD MAN!”
Crowd erupts.
---
[VERSE 2 — PAPER CHAMPION]
Mick knew.
That's what made it cold.
He knew what was coming
before Rocky was told.
Easy fights.
Right names.
Keep the belt polished.
Then the hungry motherfucker
walked straight through college.
No invitation.
No handshake.
No “glad to meet ya.”
I looked at the champion
like:
I DON'T BELIEVE YA.
Paper champion?
Then prove me wrong.
You been singing victory
too motherfuckin’ long.
Then I found the button.
Wasn't underneath his chin.
Wasn't liver.
Wasn't ribs.
Wasn't even his skin.
Adrian.
Now Rocky wants war.
That's when you learn
what somebody's fighting for.
I didn't punch Rocky first.
I punched the story.
Hit the identity.
Hit the glory.
Hit the thing inside him saying:
“You already arrived.”
Sometimes the motherfucker
trying to kill your illusion
is the reason
you finally come alive.
---
[HOOK]
CLUBBER LANG! CLUBBER LANG!
Ain’t nobody fuckin’ with CLUBBER LANG!
ROCKY! ROCKY!
STAND ON THE ROCK!
I WHOOP YOUR ASS, BOY!
Till somebody yell STOP!
APOLLO CREED!
APOLLO CREED!
Tell me what the fuck
do you really believe?
Prediction?
PAIN!
P...
PROFIT.
A-I...
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE.
N...
NATURE.
PAIN.
---
[VERSE 3 — WHO THE FUCK IS MR. T?]
Hold up.
Clubber ain't T.
T ain't Clubber.
But tell me where one ends
and begins the other.
Actor.
Character.
Writer.
Fighter.
One light—
different flame
depending on the lighter.
Mr. T.
T — TRUTH.
A-Team.
ALPHA TEAM.
Fifty chains hanging—
but the chains never wore him.
Everybody saw gold.
Maybe gold wasn't money.
What if gold was gravity?
What if that shit was heavy
because something had to hold him?
Biggest motherfucker in the room—
kids run toward him.
Think about that.
Power don't always make
the little ones scared.
Sometimes you know
the motherfucker's powerful
because the weakest person there
feels safe when he's there.
Then the bell rings—
Truth moves aside.
Clubber steps forward.
Now nowhere to hide.
---
[VERSE 4 — RAP INDUSTRY]
Now rappers—
your turn.
Take the Auto-Tune off.
Take the jewelry off.
Take the followers away.
Take the label away.
Take the dead homie out the verse.
Take the Lambo.
Spotify.
Billboard.
Blue check.
Entourage.
Algorithm.
Socials.
All of it.
Gone.
Now—
just you.
In the square.
Against you.
WHO WROTE YOU?
Your neighborhood?
Your trauma?
Your mama?
Your enemy?
Your label?
Your money?
The motherfucker who abandoned you?
The people applauding you?
The people who hate you?
Who got the pencil?
Because if somebody else can write
what makes you happy...
write what makes you angry...
write what makes you kill...
write what makes you love...
write what makes you hate yourself...
then maybe the chain around your neck
ain't the one made out of gold.
Beat stops.
---
[BRIDGE — LOW VOICE]
Most diss records load the gun...
then waste the bullet
on another man.
Fuck that.
I didn't load this motherfucker
for him.
I loaded it...
FOR YOU.
Beat drops harder.
---
[FINAL VERSE — THE SHOT]
All that anger?
LilBlettt!
All that pressure?
[FINAL VERSE — THE SHOT]
All that anger?
LilBlettt!
All that pressure?
Bring it.
Every motherfucker
that ever counted you out?
Bring 'em.
Every scar?
Bring it.
Every lie?
Bring it.
Every night you said
tomorrow—
BRING IT.
Now put all that
Now put all that