The Recocking Redux

Yo, I’m the ghost that haunts the charts when you’re sleepin’ in that OVO throne,

Drake, you’re the mixtape‑minded mascot, forever stuck in “Views” and phone tones.

You claim “Started From the Bottom,” but the ladder’s rusted, you fell off the rung,

Your verses sound like “Hotline” jokes—auto‑dialed memes, forever sung.

Toronto’s snow’s colder than the feelings you spray in every love song,

Your heart’s a hollow soundboard, echoing “One Dance” when the beat’s gone wrong.

You’re a king of “soft‑serve” bars, butter‑soft, no bite in your bite,

Your swagger’s a selfie filter—pixelated hype, no real insight.

You brag ‘bout “Certified Lover Boy,” but the only thing certified is the hype,

Your fame’s a TikTok loop, a recycled meme you can’t even swipe.

All those ghostwriters you hire—yeah, they ghost you back, they’re done,

Your “lyrics” are a corporate memo, a PR memo, no fun.