“Spray-Tan Soul, Panic Stare” isn’t subtle—and it’s not meant to be.

This track plays like a lyrical bodycam: raw, unflinching, fully loaded—hush money, mugshots, stolen docs, tantrums on tape. Every bar stacks receipts, grilling a man who confuses spectacle for strength.

Felon 47 takes center stage, spiraling through rhyme like a trending meltdown.

This isn’t protest—it’s poetic prosecution, ending not with a hero or a villain, but a punchline: the Joke-in-Chief.

Spray-tan soul, panic stare

Late-night burns—he cries unfair

Stormy paid—he spun the con

Thirty-four counts, the mask is gone

No spin left, no place to hide

Fakes the crowd, can’t fake the tide

He melts when the jokes get tight

Takes the hit, but dodges the light

Felon 47, tantrum-fed

Wants punchlines jailed, satire dead

From Georgia ink to D.C. flames

Breaks at burns, then scorches names

History won’t redact or brief

Not commander—just Joke-in-Chief

Secrets stashed by the minibar

Said, “They’re mine,”—they showed the scars

Told the aide, “Just move that box”

Cried foul when they cracked the locks

Espionage, he doubled down

Lied in loops, then skipped the town

Tried to scorch the trail and map

But truth don’t blink for a wiretap

Felon 47, tantrum-fed

Wants punchlines jailed, satire dead

From Georgia ink to D.C. flames

Breaks at burns, then scorches names

History won’t redact or brief

Not commander—just Joke-in-Chief

Rackets, fakes, the ballots rigged

“Find me votes”—the wires clicked

Chaos stormed, the windows cracked

He watched it live, then turned his back

Fake electors, forged ID

Threats on tape—“It wasn’t me”

Told them “fight,” then fled the scene

Now he pleads where the press is mean

Lincoln ate ink with steel in spine

FDR took flak on the line

Clinton got clowned, Bush got flamed

None threw fits when the jokes got named

Obama got heat with a steady face

This one spirals like a feed on mace

Wants parades, but skips the blame

Wants the throne, but not the flame

Felon 47, punchline-made

Truth don’t beg and jokes don’t fade

From trial feeds to comic teeth

He’s not a leader—he’s Joke-in-Chief

No glory arc, no quiet grief

Just memes and mugshots—Joke-in-Chief

Raise a glass to the tantrum king

Made satire scream, then snapped the ring

Not the hero, not the thief

Just a footnote sunk beneath deceit

When the book turns the final page—

Felon 47. Joke of an Age.