Instrumental and vocals generated with Suno AI.
Lyrics written by Dr Mester .
Not for commercial use.

Preface to "TOO SKILLED TO KILL"

In the hushed corridors of power—boardrooms, clinics, studios, or streets—there’s a quiet war waged against the too skilled. The ones whose brilliance rattles the status quo, whose gifts outshine the dim glow of complacency. This is an anthem for the undervalued, the ones dismissed not for lack of talent, but for having too much of it.

Nepotism’s shadow stretches long. Managers cling to comfort, favoring familiarity over fire. They mistake loyalty for legacy, trading potential for puppets who nod, never create. But what happens when raw skill disrupts the script? When hands that heal, words that cut, or rhythms that resurrect expose the cracks in their throne? They call it “theft,” “disloyalty,” “attitude”—anything to bury the truth: excellence terrifies mediocrity.

This story isn’t just about fired therapists or a client’s loyalty. It’s about every soul who’s been gaslit into doubting their magic. The jazz riff here isn’t just sound—it’s the chaos of clashing egos at most workspaces in any profession. The reggae groove? The pulse of resilience, the heartbeat of those who rise even as doors slam behind them.

So let the jealous tie their knots. Let the favored fade into their echo chambers. Talent can’t be muted. Grace can’t be gatekept. And when the truth finally drops? It don’t tap—it thunders.

—A hymn for the ones who outgrew the box.

TOO SKILLED TO KILL

(rap/jazz/reggae fusion)
🎤 [Hook / Chorus – Repeat]

    Skill too loud, can't mute me
    Jealous hands can't soothe me
    Truth hurts? Then feel that knot
    I heal souls—she ties knots

🎤 [Verse 1 – Fired Therapist]

They let me go, said “thanks, but nah,”
Wasn’t skill—just fear in a jealous spa.
Three years in, still mid-tier touch,
But my fingers? Blessings. Too much? Clutch.

Client came once, then they never looked back,
Said my hands spoke peace—she just cracked.
Whispers in shadows, lies on repeat,
But I’m the one left standin’ with receipts.

“Clients complained”? Cute little play,
Funny how they begged to book me anyway.
Truth got legs, hers barely crawl,
She threw shade ‘cause I made her fall.

I ain’t steal clients—they ran to my door,
Said, “That other massage? Felt like a chore.”
Owner shook, chose comfort over flame,
Could’ve had a legend. Now just shame.
🎤 [Hook / Chorus – Repeat]

    Skill too loud, can't mute me
    Jealous hands can't soothe me
    Truth hurts? Then feel that knot
    I heal souls—she ties knots

🎤 [Verse 2 – Client POV]

Walked in tight, walked out whole,
He touched my spine, but healed my soul.
Tried the other—yeah, three-year vet,
But all I felt was pressure and regret.

Wasn’t rude, just real with the facts,
Said, “He the truth”—ain’t no need to act.
He ain’t steal me—I left on my own,
He ain’t hustle me—I found home.

Now I hear whispers, “He took my base,”
Nah, sis, he earned that space.
You had time, but you played it safe,
He showed up, now you feel replaced.

That’s not theft, that’s just growth,
He touched nerves you never approached.
You called it theft? Nah—it’s grace,
He gave what you couldn’t face.
🎷 [Bridge – Spoken Word / Jazz Interlude]

They said “we’re a team”—’til I shined too bright,
Then hands turned cold in the dead of night.
This ain’t just touch—it’s medicine flow,
It’s heart to hand, it’s soul below.

Jealousy don’t care 'bout healing arts,
Just wants the praise, not the patient’s hearts.
They fired grace, kept the noise instead,
Killed the bond just to save their dread.
✋🏽 [Mini-Section – “Fake Fives”]

Gave me high-fives like we tight or sum’n,
But her grip felt cold—like a loaded gun.
Laughed in the lounge, but she feared my flame,
Clapped her hands while whisperin’ blame.
🎤 [Final Hook – Repeat & Fade]

    Skill too loud, can't mute me
    Healing's art, not a beauty pageant
    Jealous shade? Just free promo
    Fired the truth. What a low blow.

TOO SKILLED TO KILL

"Naturopath by profession, rhythm-maker by passion. Exploring the deep connections between ancestral wisdom, nutrition, and sound. Funk-infused truths, anything from  fermented beets to delicious raw beats, and messages that challenge the norm."

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