This is the hottest song of Web3 based on a particular individual who doesn't see past his own ego. Lyrics below:
He kicks open doors with that shit-eating grin, Spits out opinions like buckshot, never lets the doubt get in. He’ll call the sky red if he feels like it, Tell you rain’s just sunlight, try and make you buy it. Chin up, chest out, he’s a walking declaration— Doesn’t need evidence, just volume and reputation. You call him out, he gets louder, digs in, He’d burn the truth alive before he ever gives in. He’ll drive the car off a cliff, say the map was a liar, Blame the crash on gravity and call himself higher.
He’s gotta be right, he’s gotta be king, He’s gotta stand tall, can’t admit a damn thing. Wrong’s just a rumor, and pride is the prize, He’ll twist your words and believe his own lies. Hell could freeze over, and he’d call it July— He’s gotta be right, doesn’t care how or why.
He’ll turn every dinner to a goddamn debate, Swear the world is flat, then double down on fate. If you got proof, he’s got stories, new rules to invent, Never lost an argument, just changed what it meant. Won’t back down even with facts in his face, He’ll move the goalposts, then erase every trace. He’ll drag you through mud just to call himself clean, Claim your win as his own, rewrite every scene. Every hill’s the one he’ll die on tonight— He’s a martyr for ego, bleeding out on being right.
He’s gotta be right, he’s gotta be king, He’s gotta stand tall, can’t admit a damn thing. Wrong’s just a rumor, and pride is the prize, He’ll twist your words and believe his own lies. Hell could freeze over, and he’d call it July— He’s gotta be right, doesn’t care how or why.
He’ll gaslight the sunrise, claim he invented the dawn, Stomp on your logic till the reason is gone. He’ll build a castle from all his mistakes, Crown himself lord of the lands he forsakes. And if the whole world calls him out on his shit, He’ll scream from the ruins, “I meant every bit!”
He’ll lose every friend, burn every bridge, Smile in the ashes, say you pushed him to the edge. Guts made of concrete, heart sealed up tight, He’d rather be lonely than admit you were right. He’s the last man standing on a pile of “I told you,” The echo of stubborn, the god of “I own you.” Let history write him as the fool on the throne— He’ll frame that inscription and call it his own.
He’s gotta be right, gotta finish the fight, He’s gotta be right, even wrong’s out of sight. Truth is just noise he can’t stand to hear, He’ll drown in his echo, and never show fear. Hell could freeze over, and he’d call it July— He’s gotta be right, And that’s the reason why.
Don’t like it? Argue louder.