INSTASAMKA DISS

Dora? Who's that? A singer?
Yeah, uh-huh
I don’t know who that is
I don’t know either
I don’t know either
Come on, please
And MAYBE BABY?
We don't know

My stylist fucked your stylist
MAYBE BABY, Bitch
My stylist is your stylist's stylist

Hey, lil' bitch, MAYBE BABY still, babe, check it out
You ain't a rapper, see how to bite Cardi B
Poker face, joker up my sleeve, listen, I'm Harley Quinn (Ha)
I can see, just believe me, honey, you don't wanna beef
Fake bitch, your dude got a nose job (Whoa)
But still can’t tell your rap is trash
Every other verse is about dicks and blowjobs
This is the first track where you ain't here, but you still suck

Here’s your cardiogram
You stole everything from Cardi
But you ain't got a gram of Cardi (Uh-huh)
It's embarrassing for anyone over fifth grade to listen to you
You’re on the radio, only if it’s a baby monitor
Once again, you ain't ready
Put back the track you stole
You got a couple sticks up your ass, Bitch
'Cause that ass is like a dollar
Shut off your track — ears are dying
Two minutes: money, juicy, mama
And for the first time, I agree with the phrase
That you shouldn't listen to a girl
Hey, hey, you stirred up drama with Kristina Si
But your dudes are Gs, she’s Armenian, her dudes are Gs (Ha)
Press F, silicone everywhere, you look scary (Uh-huh)
Next to you, even Cardi would say she ain't bi

You need to cut down the mannequin and Instasamka
'Cause now you won't have any cash or Insta
You play hip-hop, you look like your ass (Oh-oh)
'Cause you both are fake and dropping shit (Ew)

Even in D&G clothes, you’re a hick inside
I bet your brains are smaller than your own tits
Your songs weigh bait, you love to steal so much
That one day you robbed your own house
On "Musicality" you talk like you don’t know
Who I am, but then why you putting my punches in your track?
You took my bar about the stylist
I can give you his number, your looks are a shame
You throw the staff's stuff out the door
But they should’ve thrown you out instead
Your dude's just a wannabe
I can take the chains off the mannequin like a seller
And why is your production signed with his name
If all the beats were produced by Padillion?

Jumping on her ass like on a yoga ball
After the beef, you won't wash that green off your face
You counted all the income with Soda Lava
But after sanctions, your money's only enough for soda

All your hype is practically dead
I got skills, I got style, you got long nails
Shut off the beat to hear your panic fear (A)
I made you — I'm your plastic surgeon (MAYBE)