**(Intro)**
*[Beat drops—thick bassline, crackling vinyl sample, finger snaps]*
Yo, check it… *[echo effect]*… the streets hummin’ like a flipped circuit…
**(Verse 1)**
Step into the cipher where the truth gets spoken,
Mic clutched like a weapon, no fuse—it’s already broken.
Concrete jungle’s got a new blacktop preacher,
Spittin’ sermons in slang—call me the rhyme teacher.
Midnight on the block where the streetlights flicker,
Shadowboxin’ with fate, my flow’s liquor-thicker.
Jeeps bump my tape, subs knockin’ loose screws,
I juggle words like fire, torchin’ all the fake news.
Leather coats saggin’, fat laces in the kicks,
B-boys spin myths where the pavement’s cracked bricks.
I’m the ghost in the booth, ink bled on looseleaf,
Every bar’s a bloodstain—ain’t no peace, just war chiefs.
**(Chorus)**
*[Harmonica riff]*
It’s the *bang-bang*, *boogie* down Bronx in your speaker,
Dollar vans skippin’ stops, rhyme reaper’s getting deeper.
Snatch crowns with a pinky ring, no cheater,
90s forever—cold grill, but the *heat’s* under the street, uh!
**(Verse 2)**
Smoke-filled rooms where the dice kiss the pavement,
My pen’s a switchblade—split opinions with enslavement.
From the gutter to the throne, no lottery ticket,
Just sweat in the stencil, spray cans and thickets.
Subway trains wear my tags in cryptic,
Lyrics stick like gum under desks where the kids sit.
I stalk the block with a walkman’s heartbeat,
Crunch time—every second’s a snare drum’s backbeat.
Aim my syllables like drive-bys at fakers,
Bulletin-board braggarts? Nah, we tombstone-makers.
Flip the script like a stray dog playin’ roulette,
My legacy’s etched where the sun don’t set.
**(Chorus)**
*[Harmonica riff]*
It’s the *bang-bang*, *boogie* down Bronx in your speaker,
Dollar vans skippin’ stops, rhyme reaper’s getting deeper.
Snatch crowns with a pinky ring, no cheater,
90s forever—cold grill, but the *heat’s* under the street, uh!
**(Bridge)**
*[Jazzy piano stabs]*
They said the game’s a short fuse—I rewired the clock,
Now every tick’s a punchline, every tock’s a gun cock.
Archives in my locker, yellowed pages stained with ink,
A poet in a bomber jacket—think *think* **think**…
**(Verse 3)**
I’m the last call at the corner store of metaphor,
Lace a punch with honey, hit ’em sour like a war corps.
Moonlight’s my hype man, shadows clap when I arrive,
Bottle rockets in the projects—how we stay alive.
Flip a phrase like a two-dollar pancake special,
Got the sauce, no recipe—just chef’s residuals.
Boom-bap druid, summon spirits from the sampler,
Crack the skyline open, let the city breathe a mantra.
**(Outro)**
*[Vinyl scratch, beat fades]*
When the glockenspiel stops and the tape deck coughs,
I’m the echo in the alley where the rhyme got lost…
*[Footsteps walking away, distant subway roar]*
dJJIMMYS247
