Let the brap shake the Earth,
and let exotics tremble at cold start.

Let the lope be nasty,
the revs divine,
and the limiter beg for forgiveness.

For deep within this block, a warrior awakens—
forged in aluminum, baptized in fire,
sent to destroy the overhyped.

7 liters of violence.
No turbos. No traction control. No safety nets.
Just cam, cubes, and chaos.

Let traction fight for its life,
let our pistons slap with the fury of God,
and let every pull be a death sentence to all that challenge.

They will know fear. They will know chop.
For on the seventh pull, the dyno wept.
Lambos, Ferraris, McLarens—none shall be spared.

This LS7? Anointed.
Let it slap. Let it scream.
Let it brap eternal.

Fucking amen, bruh.