[Intro]
[dusty drum break, walking upright bass, jazzy piano loop]
[Verse 1]
[male rap vocals]
I was sifting through the crates before I learned to orbit light
Before the hunger wore a collar, before the dawn could name the night
I deciphered star-chart scriptures and the arithmetic of flame
Then slid the mic into my palm like a comet with a name
I forged the mic so I could anoint it, let the echoes take a seat
Tapped the air until it shimmered, made percussion from my heartbeat
There were many who would circle us, with silver teeth and paper might
But I bend my chords to braided galaxies and turn their shadows bright
I fasten on these leg-braces, leg-braces, like a dancer in a storm
And cast a velvet hex on every engine of the cold and formless swarm
So go ahead and try on— we leave you no shoulder for your sorrow
From now through the endless blue, let yesterday be borrowed
[Verse 2]
[male rap vocals]
I drifted through the static with a atlas made of rhythm
An old soul draped in moonlit brass, carrying thunder in my vision
Dust on the vinyl, but the groove still walks in white
I’m a midnight cipher blooming in a smoke-and-sapphire night
Moonwalk thoughts beneath the streetlamp’s quiet alchemy
Basslines heavy as a monk’s soft, unshaken gravity
Every bar warps time when the snare cracks the ceiling
Got phantoms in the sampler and the whole block feeling
I don’t chase the glare, I let the cadence flower
Turn a cracked sidewalk prayer into cathedral power
From the stoop to the constellations, still rooted in the pavement
Writing constellations in the margins of amazement
[Hook]
[dusty vocal chop, scratches]
Pass the mic, let the old drums breathe
We build whole worlds out of soul and belief
Hands in the air when the bassline drops
Boom bap forever, and the rhythm don’t stop
[Verse 3]
I got a pocket full of planets and a tongue full of thunder
Split atoms in the booth while the crowd pulls me under
Professor of pressure, street-corner lecturer
Turntable textures, vinyl architectura
Every rhyme got roots like a tree in the concrete
Every kick drum talks when it lands on the offbeat
I’m not from the future, I just studied the past
Learned the truth moves slow, but the fake moves fast
So I sharpen my syllables, polish the grit
Make a cathedral out the room when the hi-hats hit
No gimmicks, no filters, no plastic crown
Just a pen, a breakbeat, and a legendary sound.