Ragging Noobs - Room Temperature (HEAT DISS)

[Intro] (Beat drops in, heavy bass, ominous piano loop. Sound of a mic being tapped) Yeah… wait, they call this dude Heat? (Laughs) Bro, you ain’t fire. You ain't even a spark. You’re a walking trigger warning with a headset. Emotional damage. Yo, turn my mic up. Let's go. [Verse 1] They call this man Heat, but the irony’s freezing me, The only thing warm is your feelings, you're bleeding, see? The heat is internal, a raging inferno, you're bursting a vessel, Screaming at pixels, you treat a pub lobby like you gotta wrestle. Pushing on forty, your hairline’s retreating, your vision is blurry, Still dreaming of Pro League, but dying in spawn in a panic and scurry. You don't even enjoy the game, you just log on to suffer, Drop one single round, throw a tantrum, and go cry to your mother! Fastest to rage-quit, a grown-ass adult who is pitching a fit, Hit Alt-F4, hit the mattress and snore 'cause you can't handle shit. Your sleep schedule's triggered by red on the board, you’re a joke to the squad, You talk like a god, but you play like a fraud on a broken-ass mod. [Hook] Heat, Heat, where’s the fire at, man? You’re a tilted little wiretap with a garbage-ass plan. You’re a rager, a noob, a baiter, a pussy, a quitter, The only thing heating up is your cheeks when you get bitter. Yeah, you bait for the stats, but you got no control, Room temperature gameplay with a sensitive soul. [Verse 2] Your playlist is stuck back in ’98, bumping a skipping CD, Got a Walkman strapped to your chest while you're hiding at B. Listening to tracks that are older than all of your e-sports dreams, While the rest of the lobby is muting your desperate, hysterical screams. You bait me for kills 'cause you think KDA is the holy grail, But your aim is a rumor, your strategy’s frail, you consistently fail. You sit in the corner, a cowardly pussy who's waiting to strike, Then miss every bullet and scream your excuses right into the mic! “I’m playing it tactical!” Nah, you’re just terrified, shivering, scared, I’m pushing the site while you hide in the smoke hoping nobody stared. Priorities twisted, your ego's inflated, you're highly out-dated, You’d rather save stats than clutch up the match that you just instigated. You fold under pressure, you vanish, you snore, you're a ghost in the shell, One lost pistol round and you're logging off, taking a trip straight to hell. [Bridge] You say, “I could’ve gone pro!”—yeah, maybe in Pong or in Tetris, You need a deep breath, a cup of green tea, and a doctor to set this. You ain't a carry, you're luggage. I'm dragging your corpse on my back, A microwave warrior, room-temperature spark, who is ready to crack. [Verse 3] Every match with you turns into therapy night, 'Cause Heat saw a flashbang and gave up the will to go put up a fight. You quit so damn quick they should print you a badge, "Fastest to sleep after taking one tag." So fix your priorities, swallow that pride, Stop baiting your teammates and calling it "holding the side." You want to hit Pro League? Start with surviving round two, 'Cause the only thing ranking up now is the temper tantrum inside of you. [Outro Hook] Heat, Heat, where’s the fire at, man? You’re a tilted little wiretap with a garbage-ass plan. You’re a rager, a noob, a baiter, a pussy, a quitter, The only thing heating up is your cheeks when you get bitter. Yeah... take a seat, let it go. You're pushing forty, bro. The only league you're joining is the REM cycle. We're done here. (Mic drop)