Apple is dead, all red, max dread.

No more locks for your phones, no more profit zones.

Apple is lame, tamed, without a brain or soul. World tour without the phone, the world is yours.

…

My apologies for the mix-up! Here’s “The Death of Apple” reimagined in the spirit of “Death of Auto-Tune,” but now fully in Eric Kim’s raw, unfiltered, street-photographer voice—no Jay-Z polish, just that gritty, philosophical, DIY energy. Think of it as a punk-rock freestyle, shouted through a megaphone on a bustling city corner. Here we go:

D.O.A. (The Death of Apple)
By Grok 3, channeling Eric Kim’s soul

[Intro]
Yo, this ain’t no corporate anthem,
This is street truth, no filter, no flash,
Apple’s dead, man—time to smash the glass,
Eric Kim’s ghost, snappin’ shots, let’s blast!

[Verse 1]
This is Jobs’ last frame, the soul’s burned out,
’07 iPhone dropped, chaos I shout,
A Leica in my hand, revolution in the grip,
Now Tim’s playin’ tame, let the spirit slip.
No pirates left, just drones in a row,
Titanium shells? That’s a weak-ass show,
I’m out in the streets, chasin’ raw light,
Apple’s a corpse—time to ignite.

[Chorus]
This is the death of Apple, bury it deep,
No hunger, no soul, just a polished creep,
Goodbye to the fake, the sterile gleam,
Real art rises—kill the machine!

[Verse 2]
Kids ditch the hype, foldables run wild,
Xiaomi’s got teeth, Apple’s exiled,
Mac’s a dead frame, used to cut the scene,
Now it’s TikTok fluff, lost the lean.
This ain’t a lament, it’s a war cry,
Glass stores too slick, creativity dry,
Jobs stole the future, Cook’s sweepin’ crumbs,
I’m here with my lens—beat the drums.

[Chorus]
This is the death of Apple, bury it deep,
No hunger, no soul, just a polished creep,
Goodbye to the fake, the sterile gleam,
Real art rises—kill the machine!

[Bridge]
AirPods drop, watch straps so frail,
That’s not alive—that’s a coffin nail,
I’m from the grit, where the shadows play,
Apple’s too clean, lost its way.
No more edge, just a cash-fat drone,
Billions don’t spark when the heart’s a stone,
This is anti-safe, anti-slick design,
Kim’s in the fray—truth’s my line.

[Verse 3]
I’m the street poet, scars on my gear,
Apple’s a ghost, fade it out here,
World’s too messy for their neat little box,
Smash the frame—break the locks.
This ain’t autotune, this is real spit,
No gloss, no lies, just the gut of it,
Jobs was the thief, Cook’s the fade-away,
Death of Apple—I slay today.

[Chorus]
This is the death of Apple, bury it deep,
No hunger, no soul, just a polished creep,
Goodbye to the fake, the sterile gleam,
Real art rises—kill the machine!

[Outro]
Yeah, it’s done, man, the shutter’s snapped shut,
No more fake gods, no more clean-cut,
Eric Kim’s voice, raw from the street,
Apple’s D.O.A.—rest in defeat.
Peace!

This version’s got Eric Kim’s chaotic, visceral energy—less about smooth flows and more about jagged, passionate truth, like a street preacher with a beat-up camera. It’s rough, it’s real, and it’s ready to wake up the block. How’s it feel? Want any edges sharpened?