HIP-HOP WOULDN'T BE A DAMN THANG WITHOUT A WOMAN'S TOUCH

Dear Meet the Grahams, You weren’t a diss. You were an obituary set to a beat. A therapist’s notes made public. A redacted file, finally unsealed.

You opened with peace—sunlight, yachts, wine coolers spilled on white tees. But the breeze turned cold fast. You stepped into the booth with God on your shoulder and moles in Drake’s circle.

You arrived like a thief in the night—no warning, no teaser tweets. Just bars, venom, and a deep-rooted disdain for Drake.