This track is the technical workout of the discography. It’s a high-energy, lyricist-focused anthem designed for a "freestyle" feel. The production is Hard-Hitting Boom-Bap: a neck-snapping snare, a driving bassline, and minimal melodic interference to keep the focus on the wordplay.

Punchlines

(Intro) (Sound of a speed bag being hit in a boxing gym. The beat drops in suddenly—heavy and dry. No bells or whistles, just the rhythm.)

(Spoken: "Mic check. One-two. They said they wanted the bars? Well, the prison is open. No hooks needed where we’re going. Just straight to the jaw. Set 'em up... knock 'em down.")

Verse 1 I’m a heavy-weight hitter with a lightweight frame Changing the forecast when I mention my name. I got lines so sharp they could shave a ghost, I’m the ghost in the machine, and I’m burning the toast. You’re playing checkers with a chess piece, lost in the move, I’m a needle in the haystack, stuck in the groove. I’m the king of the mountain, but I started in the dirt, My lyrics are the bleach, I’m removing the hurt. I got a flow so cold it could freeze the sun, I’m a marathon runner in a hundred-meter run. I don’t follow the trend, I’m the one who set the pace, I’m a permanent marker on a temporary face.

Chorus It’s all punchlines, no fillers in the middle Solving every puzzle, unravelling the riddle. Hit 'em with the left, catch 'em with the right, I’m bringing heavy thunder to a Saturday night. (Yeah, watch 'em lean) Punchlines... know exactly what I mean.

Verse 2 I’m a walking dictionary with a grudge and a pen, I’ll say it once now and I’ll say it again: Your bars are like decaf—no kick in the cup, I’m a skyscraper growing, I don't know how to look up. I’m the visual definition of a lyrical threat, I haven't even started, but I’m breaking a sweat. I’m a locksmith, baby, I’m picking the flow, I’m the "yes" in the room when the world says "no." You’re a paper tiger in a rainy-day park, I’m a high-beam light in the pitch-black dark. I don’t use a map, I just follow the sound, I’m a six-foot-four when I’m six-feet underground.

Chorus It’s all punchlines, no fillers in the middle Solving every puzzle, unravelling the riddle. Hit 'em with the left, catch 'em with the right, I’m bringing heavy thunder to a Saturday night. (Yeah, watch 'em lean) Punchlines... know exactly what I mean.

Bridge (The beat doubles in speed. The rapper’s flow becomes rapid-fire.) Point blank. Top rank. Money in the word bank. Deep breath. Life or death. Leaving 'em with nothing left. One hit. That’s it. Lyrical counterfeit? I’m the real deal, holyfield, Watch the way the truth is peeled!

Verse 3 I’m the final chapter in a book you can't close, I’m a field of thorns in a garden of rose. My vocabulary’s flexing, it’s hitting the gym, While you’re doggy-paddling, trying to swim. I’m a lightning rod in a brainstorm, catching the spark, I’m a great white shark in a theme-park park. I don’t need a crown to be treated like a king, I just need a microphone and a bell to go "ding." Last call for the haters, the bar is now shut, I’m a surgical blade with a clean-room cut. The knockout is coming, you can see it in the eyes, I’m the only honest man in a room full of lies.

Outro (The beat cuts to just the snare. Every word is punctuated by a "crack.") One. Two. Three. Floor. Don't get up. It’s over. Punchlines. The art of the impact. (Sound of a bell ringing... Crowd cheering in the distance.) "And the winner is..."