Oh him? Yeah, we know the type.

Big talk, small walk — all bark, no swipe.

Walks in like the sequel no one asked for,

Sir, you’re not a vibe, you’re a chore.

You flex hard, but babe — it’s giving overcompensate,

Your ego’s writing cheques your skills can’t validate.

You’re the mayor of Gaslight City,

Population: you, and… well, just you, pity.

“Back in my day…” — boy, you’re 32,

Ain’t no glory days, just missed rent due.

That Rolex? TikTok shop.

That Lambo? Rental lot stop.

You spit game like you’re top shelf rare,

But can’t spell “entrepreneur” — not even dare.

You call yourself “alpha,” “boss,” and “king,”

But babe, the only crown you’ve got is from Burger King.

Sliding in DMs with “hey beautiful” on loop,

Sir, get a hobby — maybe a book group?

While you flex like life’s a rap video scene,

We clock the holes in your self-esteem.

Loudest in the room but quiet when it counts,

Your clout’s like crypto — dramatic amounts… then bounced.

You’re not deep, you’re not dark, you’re just dim,

It’s not charisma — it’s just gym.

So puff that chest and quote Sun Tzu wrong,

We’ll be here, unbothered all along.

Because behind that swagger and dollar-store charm,

Is just a boy scared of showing harm.

Big ego? Cute. Big man? Never.

Sir, humble pie is forever on the menu — bon appétit, clever.