Help out the homie and me to come up with some lyrics for a vail diss track. Happy cooking.
(feel free to include any cringe ski shmeat you want, ankilla or dopesnow or whatever)
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partyandBSfor the record, i do like a lot of what VR does and don’t think they deserve all the hate they get although some is certainly earned
ChatGPT be spittin bars:
Yo, they came to town, bought it all in a day,
Changed up the slopes, turned the locals away.
45-minute hold just to holler at HR,
Broomfield in the loop, yeah, they feelin’ so far.
Sayin’ they the kings of snow, crown on high,
But they watered down the powder, watch the culture die.
Terrain parks shut down, no place to play,
Kids with their boards got no reason to stay.
[Chorus]
They ain’t like us, nah, they don’t know,
Turned our slopes into corporate snow.
They ain’t like us, all cash, no soul,
Cold as the lift lines they can’t control.
[Verse 2]
Killed off the vibe, no events, no sound,
Resorts feel empty, ghost towns all around.
Used to be alive, but they pulled the plug,
Now we just reminisce on the slopes we loved.
Overpriced tickets, lift lines a mile,
Pay for the “experience,” but it’s just their style.
Rakin’ in billions, but the vibe went broke,
Ski towns hurtin’, yeah, this ain’t no joke.
[Chorus]
They ain’t like us, nah, they don’t get it,
Culture in chains, but they won’t admit it.
They ain’t like us, just green in their sight,
Lost in the powder, no mountain insight.
[Verse 3]
Wanna talk to HR? Better sit tight,
Hold music looped till you see daylight.
Broomfield HQ, they don’t know our scene,
Decisions on high, while they keep us unseen.
They say “Epic,” yeah, but it feel kinda cheap,
Promisin’ dreams while our spirits sleep.
Local shops closin’, towns feel the strain,
But they got their profits, so who’s to blame?
[Bridge]
Nah, they ain’t like us, they just buy and sell,
Throw cash at the mountain, strip it bare as well.
Watchin’ the parks die, watchin’ the soul fade,
But they up in their towers, games they played.
[Chorus]
They ain’t like us, nah, they don’t care,
Built on history, but they ain’t aware.
They ain’t like us, roots run too deep,
Can’t buy a culture that they sold for cheap.
[Outro]
So here’s to the mountains, here’s to the soul,
Here’s to the riders they can’t control.
For every slope they took, we make our own,
They ain’t like us—this here’s our home.