Joyner Lucas Torches Skepta on “Nobody Cares,” a Nuclear-Grade U.S.–U.K. Salvo
Massachusetts sharpshooter Joyner Lucas just crash-landed a heat-seeker called “Nobody Cares” at 8 a.m. sharp on July 15, and the crater is still smoking. Clocking in at a lean three minutes, the track is his answer to Skepta’s weekend-dropped “Friendly Fire,” and it’s less a response than a full-scale invasion. Leo Son and ADHD Productions lace the beat with funeral-parlor pianos and sub-bass that rumbles like a subway tunnel, all while Joyner sprints double-time like he’s dodging Interpol red notices.
NOBODY CARES Lyrics by Joyner Lucas
Yeah,
smoke,
ayy,
yeah,
ayy,
smoke,
ayy,
smoke
I want smoke,
I want smoke,
I want smoke,
I want smoke
(Ayy, Joyner, brrt)
Who want smoke? Gimme the blunt, I’m ready to blaze a corpse (Do it)
After this song is over, I never wan’ hear this debate no more (For real)
I ain’t wanna do it, but somebody told me he saying my name, it’s war (Joyner)
I wanna know what drugs you taking and what do you take me for?
Maybe you mad ’cause you ain’t got buzz up in the UK no more (You mad)
I heard your career just ain’t what it was and you don’t get paid no more (Facts)
If you wanna feature, ***, just say it, but you gotta pay me for it (Say that)
And after I body you, I don’t want you ever saying my name anymore (Grrt-grrt)
I know you putting your flag all on your back, now you gotta carry it (Aha)
If somebody holding it down, it shouldn’t be you, it’s time to be serious (Serious)
I know you hate being home, you come to the States and try to be arrogant (Yeah)
I bet you sit in your room and secretly wish that you was American (Ahh)
Soon as I heard your diss, was shaking my head, the *** was hilarious (Trash)
Ain’t even wanna respond
But niggas in London told me take care of it (Yeah, grrt, grrt, grrah!)
You keep on saying my name, you digging the grave that you gon’ be buried in (***)
Everyone back in your country looking at you like you an embarrassment
I’m bout to perish ’emh (Grrt, grrt, grrah!)
I gotta, I gotta make ’em respect this ***, put that on your life, I bet this *** (Brrt)
You lyrically better than no one I know, not even no one on the Freshman List
I love the UK, but that’s just it, I really hope you ain’t the best there is (Grrt, grrt)
‘Cause all of my life, I never heard nobody tell me to put on that Skepta *** (Grrah!)
When you gon’ finally accept this ***? You not on my level, don’t test this *** (Grrt, grrt)
I know that you think it’s friendly fire, but I’m not one of your friends and *** (Boom-boom)
You should of hit up of your friends, lil’ ***, go call up Dave and Central, ***
For me, you gon’ need the Avengers, ***
Go tell ’em that Joyner done sent you, *** (Grrt, grrt, grrah!)
Nobody cares you was that *** back in the days
You only popping in the UK
But we don’t play your *** in the states (Nobody cares, woah, woah)
Nobody cares how many women that you played (Yeah)
Or how many bullets that you sprayed
Or who you bringing out on stage (Nobody cares, grrat)
Nobody cares if you sat with all the GOATs
Or how many tags is on your coats
Or how many niggas that you know (We don’t care, uh, uh)
Nobody cares about how you and Drizzy are close
Or how you invented UK Rap, but still ain’t top ten on your Coast, *** (Grrat, woo)
What made you think it’s a bright idea to swing at a *** with stamina (Huh?)
You throwing jabs and punches
And *** for nothing cause you never landed them (Bang)
I heard that, all of a sudden, you’re Muslim, *** it, I’m ’bout to go ham on him (Word)
If you a demon, well, ***, I’m the devil, I hope that you ready to dance with ’em (Grrat)
I know I probably took it somewhere that’s past the level of making it right (Baow, boom)
I hope that when you respond
The record is hard and maybe you’ll make it a fight (Huh, grrat, grrat, boom)
I bet as soon as you hear this ***
You’ll probably be thinking bout taking a flight (Ayy, boom)
I got fans in London, but after this song, they probably gon’ hate me for life (Life, yikes)
The pistol black, your face get lit
The clip is packed, so make a wish, I’ll go to your town, I’ll take a trip (Boom-boom)
I’ll wipe you down and take your pic
My money is blue, I’m way too rich (Boom-boom, boom)
I made too much like way too quick, your music sucks, you make me sick
Pass me the plate, I’m starving, what is this *** you starting? Blah-blah-blah
Send niggas up in your apartment, use your head as a target- grah-grah-grah
I ain’t that *** to start, but I laugh at you and your garbage, ha-ha-ha
Go to Tottenham, I’m marching, that’s where I’ll leave your carcass, pow-pow-pow (Grrat!)
Nobody cares you was that *** back in the days
You only popping in the UK
But we don’t play your *** in the states (Nobody cares, woah, woah)
Nobody cares how many women that you played (Yeah)
Or how many bullets that you sprayed
Or who you bringing out on stage (Nobody cares, grrat)
Nobody cares if you sat with all the GOATs
Or how many tags is on your coats
Or how many niggas that you know (We don’t care, uh, uh)
Nobody cares about how you and Drizzy are close
Or how you invented UK Rap, but still ain’t top ten on your Coast, *** (Grrat)
Massachusetts sharpshooter Joyner Lucas just crash-landed a heat-seeker called “Nobody Cares” at 8 a.m. sharp on July 15, and the crater is still smoking. Clocking in at a lean three minutes, the track is his answer to Skepta’s weekend-dropped “Friendly Fire,” and it’s less a response than a full-scale invasion. Leo Son and ADHD Productions lace the beat with funeral-parlor pianos and sub-bass that rumbles like a subway tunnel, all while Joyner sprints double-time like he’s dodging Interpol red notices.
He opens by sparking the proverbial blunt of war: “Who want smoke? I’m ready to blaze a corpse,” then spends the next 200 bars carving Skepta’s résumé into confetti. Lucas mocks the London vet’s waning U.K. buzz, his rumored empty pockets, and even his sudden spiritual pivot—“all of a sudden you Muslim, f— it, I’m ‘bout to go ham on him.” The hook isn’t a hook; it’s a chant dripping with playground cruelty: “Nobody cares you was that n—- back in the days.” By the time he sneers, “You still ain’t top ten on your coast, n—-,” the body’s already cold.
The cover art seals the message—Joyner half-swallowed in a ski mask, half-draped in a torn Union Jack fused to the Stars and Stripes like a ransom note. If this is merely the warning shot before his next full-length, the rest of the rap world should consider travel advisories.