Fake Jesus Gets Dissed


“Fake Jesus Saves” 



You don’t look enlightened.

You look unemployed.



You play Call of Duty like it’s a holy war

Yelling at a headset, pounding the floor

“Bro he’s hacking!” nah, you just suck

Same excuse every time—skill issue, good luck


Long greasy hair hanging in your face

Like Wish-dot-com Jesus lost his grace

You look like you preach but don’t shower at all

Turning water into wine, you bathe in alcohol 


Beer cans clinking like church bells din

Smells like feet, weed, farts, and sin

You say “it’s natural,” say “it’s fine”

Bro your room violated several crimes



Fake Jesus, greasy head

Playing COD ‘til your brain’s dead

Smelly feet, loud-ass farts

Delusions of grandeur 

While the Red Sea parts 


I don’t want you hurt, even though you’re the worst

I Just want soap to find you first

You blocked me—praise the lord

I escaped the final boss you made me so bored 



That hair ain’t wavy, it’s oil slicked

Looks like it’s never met shampoo—sick

You pull it back, zero time spent

But it just smells like disappointment


You rage quit games, you rage quit life

Blame lag, blame teams, blame your ex-wife

Call me crazy, call me “unstable”

But you beef with deodorant and soap is never available 


Smelly socks growing ecosystems

Feet so bad they need exorcisms

You fart and giggle like it’s peak art

Bro check your pants, that smelled like a shart


You told everyone I was insane

But you worship Natty Ice and always complain



Fake Jesus with a greasy head

Play Call of Duty, all your fake friends are dead

Looks like faith, smells like ass

Halo gone, vibes are trash


You threw me out, said I was wrong

Now you scream-slur your hatred , all night long

I don’t miss you, not one bit

I leveled up—you’re still stuck in your shit



Hope your mic’s on when you take a dump

Hope your squad says “bro you’re an idiot chump”



Hope your mom asks “what’s that smell?”

Hope your hair clogs drains as well

Hope your bong tips, carpet dies

Hope your fake-Jesus beard gets fried



Fake Jesus, lost the plot

Playing war games, washing not

You made me the villain, told your lies

While you respawn, I rise, big surprise


And I say—

No thanks, I’m good, I’m out

I prefer clean sheets and oxygen now

You blocked me—guess that’s growth

I escaped a man beefing with Irish Spring soap


You blocked me—by divine design

Now I’m clean, calm, and doing fine

No hate, no grief, just laughing fits

Wash your hair, dude

End of diss. 


It’s been one week since you blocked me first

And somehow my life smells way less cursed

No hate, no fight, just one request—

Wash your hair.

God bless.


Amen.

And please— use conditioner 



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