Get out

Yeah… You wanted a diss?

Say less. Three names.

One mic.

Let’s work.

Vishan stay yappin’, same joke,

same theme, “Skinny” every day like that’s supposed to make me scream.

You lace up for hockey,

think you’re built for the fight,

But I’m cooking you on wax before you step on the ice.

You talk like you’re dangerous,

but the talk’s all filler,

Big volume, little impact—I’m the quiet one,

killer. You wanted my attention,

now you’re featured in a verse,

Funny how the dude you mocked just made your name worse.

You throw a little jab,

I turn it into a line,

You hand me ammunition every single time.

So keep running your mouth,

keep feeding the machine,

You wanted to be noticed—now you’re permanently on the screen.

Vihaan walked in like,

“Yeah, I’m next, I’m the guy,” Same skinny jokes again—bro,

at least diversify. Same hockey talk,

same act, same recycled routine,

If originality was hockey,

you’d never make the team.

You say you’re pulling people,

but the evidence is thin,

Every “shoot your shot” story got a different ending.

You act like rejection was part of the design,

That’s a creative way to call another missed try.

You wanted competition? I don’t even gotta strain,

You brought the whole matchup and I still control the game.

You thought I’d lose momentum when you stepped into the track,

But you gave me eight more bars—so I’m giving eight right back.

Three names on the paper,

one pen in my hand,

You can talk all you want,

but I know where I stand.

You threw little shots,

thought they’d damage my pride,

Now they’re sitting in a verse with nowhere to hide.

No fake tough talk,

no need to pretend,

If you start with the jokes,

better finish to the end.

You gave me the material,

I gave it a voice,

Now the beat keeps knocking while I make my choice.

Suhknoor jumped in like he wanted the smoke,

Now he’s finding out quick that the pen ain’t a joke.

I’m not touching cheap shots,

I’m attacking the act,

Every word that you throw gives me something to unpack.

You thought I’d need insults just to make this hit,

Nah, clever with the pen—that’s a different kind of grit.

Three targets in the track and the rhyme scheme stays clean,

I don’t need to cross lines just to make a scene.

You wanted a diss,

so I’m giving you one,

But the hardest part ain’t shouting—it’s making it run.

Every setup got a payoff,

every punch got a sting,

You brought three names to a battle with one pen and one

king.

I don’t yell—I articulate.

I don’t chase—I accelerate.

Every bar calculated, every syllable deliberate,

You wanted something personal?

Now it’s permanently documented.

Vishan with the skinny jokes,

Vihaan with the same,

Suhknoor stepped in and volunteered for the game.

Hockey on the side,

all that talking in the chat,

But when the beat drops heavy,

who’s prepared for that?

I don’t need your approval,

I don’t need your respect,

I just need a microphone and a beat to dissect.

You can laugh when it’s over,

say it wasn’t that deep,

But you heard every bar—that’s the part you can’t delete.

So remember the lesson when you’re talking that trash: Don’t hand someone

a pen if you’re scared of the clash.

Three names, one track,

and I’m leaving it there— You wanted the smoke,

now the smoke’s in the air.

No rematch.

No excuses. No edits.

You gave me the material.

I gave you the track.