Late last night, rapper B.o.B. let us all in on the little-known secret that the Earth is, in fact, flat. It was then that prominent astrophysicist and killjoy Neil DeGrasse Tyson decided to rain on his parade with “science” and “facts.” Undeterred, B.o.B. has now responded by dropping a diss track that features none other than Tyson himself.

After B.o.B. finished his flat-earther rant, which started with the tweet above and went on well into the morning, Neil hit back with the following:

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Then, about an hour ago, B.o.B. let loose a song called Flatline (get it? because it’s flat... like the Earth) that features both an out-of-context chunk of Tyson discussing the formation of the Earth and some casual Holocaust denial. Since nothing I could say could possibly do the song justice—please, listen for yourselves.

And just to make sure you didn’t miss a thing, here are the lyrics in full, according to Genius.com. (As an added bonus, see how many different conspiracies you can count hiding in the lyrics. I found six.):

Verse 1

Yo, you ain’t seen my best
Checkmate, ain’t a game of chess
Globalists see me as a threat
Free thinking, got the world at my neck
Hah, am I paranoid? Picture Malcolm X
In a room full of pigs, trying not to bust a sweat
Aye, Neil Tyson need to loosen up his vest
They’ll probably write that man one hell of a check
Aye, I’m over here on this side of town
Come on over, over, over, over here try to clown
Aye, I never pipe down
If they weren’t coming for me then
They definitively coming for me now
I can’t even keep my phone charged up
All this shit I’m talking, I should get my
Rappers get off of my dick, get your own bars up
Now the mirror lizard’s breath got the clones scared cuz
Woo, use your, use your common sense
Why is NASA department of defense?
They divided up the seas into thirty-three degrees
Feeding kids masonry, bruh, be careful what you read

Hook 1

Flat line, flat line
There’s no superior blood line
Flat line, flat line
You got me once but that died, aye

Verse 2

Voice, voice, do I have a voice?
Do I give a fuck? Do I have a choice?
Joint, joint, I roll up a joint
Keep my shooters in the game like I hate to disappoint
I see only good things on the horizon
That’s probably why the horizon is always rising
Indoctrinated in a cult called science
And graduated to a club full of liars
Heliocentrism, you were the sixth victim
Fuck you and your team, you could sit on the bench with ‘em
But before you try to curve it, do your research on David Irving
Stalin was way worse than Hitler
That’s why the POTUS gotta wear a Kipper
I’m a man first ‘fore an artist
Get a lawyer, look up Doctor Richard [?]

Hook 2

Flat line, flat line
You fooled us for the last time
Flat line, flat line
There’s no superior blood line

Interlude: Neil Tyson

So you want to find farthest point from that center. And it turns out sea level from the equator is farther away from the center of the Earth than sea level at the poles. It has nothing to do with global warming and melting of the ice caps

(Why is that?)

Because we...Earth we know it spins, once uh...a day. Yes thank you. Three people know, uh, how long a day lasts here

(Good for row number two, they’re off to a great start)

So you, you know when you spin pizza dough it kind of flattens out. It gets wider in the middle...so Earth throughout it’s life, Earth, even when it formed, it was spinning. And it got a little wider at the equator that it does at the poles. So it’s not actually a sphere, it’s oblate, it’s officially an oblate spheroid

But not only that, it’s slightly wider below the equator than above the equator

(A little chubbier?)

Little chubbier, chubby’s a good word, it’s like pear-shaped. It turns out the pear-shapedness is a bigger than the height of mount Everest above sea level

Hook 2

Flat line, flat line
You fooled us for the last time
Flat line, flat line
There’s no superior blood line
Dead

The lessons here, of course, are to never tweet, never release diss tracks at midnight, and—last but not least—to thank god that the year of the celebrity truther has finally arrived.


Contact the author at ashley@gawker.com.