Prompt / Lyrics
[Intro] Mama in the kitchen (quiet) Sirens out the window, riot Hand-me-down shoes, wide eyes Dreams in a shoebox, tied tight [Verse 1] Section 8 ceiling leaking Roaches in the cereal, eating Uncle on the couch, not breathing Cops at the door, mama screaming First pack in the backpack, scared Praying on the bus, cold stare Say it's just weed, don't care But I know where this road goes, yeah Homie got hit at the corner store Blood on the glass, they mopped the floor Next day same spot, they short on more So I stood in that line, became the source [Chorus] I grew up where the gunshots sing Lullabies in the nighttime, ring Had to sell what I hate to bring Food to the table, keep the lights from dimming I grew up where the love feel broke Turn pain to profit, hope from smoke If I make it out, that's all I wrote From the ghetto to the grave, I spoke [Verse 2] Daddy did time, then vanished Mama did two jobs, famished I did that math, took chances Turned my backpack into a canvas Clock on my hip, too heavy Hands on the wheel, palms sweaty Drive-by dreams in a Chevy Young, dumb, but the bills stay ready Little bro watching from the gate He see my roll, think it's fate I see his face, I see my hate I tell him books, but I’m late Homie in the sky, that voicemail saved Catch myself pressing play on the grave He said, "Get out 'fore you dig this place" But the rent due now, so I play this game [Chorus] I grew up where the gunshots sing Lullabies in the nighttime, ring Had to sell what I hate to bring Food to the table, keep the lights from dimming I grew up where the love feel broke Turn pain to profit, hope from smoke If I make it out, that's all I wrote From the ghetto to the grave, I spoke [Bridge] What you know about counting cash, eyes wet Stack on the table, all blood-debt Kiss mama forehead, say "not yet" Tryna buy her peace with a paycheck [Chorus] I grew up where the gunshots sing Lullabies in the nighttime, ring Had to sell what I hate to bring Food to the table, keep the lights from dimming I grew up where the love feel broke Turn pain to profit, hope from smoke If I make it out, that's all I wrote From the ghetto to the grave, I spoke
Tags
rap, Dusty West Coast bounce with warm analog synth leads, swung drums, and a rubbery bass line. Male vocals sitting upfront, relaxed but raw. Hook explodes with stacked gang vocals and subtle talkbox doubles. Verses ride a laid-back pocket with occasional record-stop drops before the last bar to spotlight key lines. Sparse piano stabs and filtered strings appear in the bridge to lift the emotion, then everything slams back in for the final chorus.
Duration
2:43
Instrumental
No
Created
3/5/2026