Yo, words and digits—two sides of the blade, One carves your fate, the other keeps it paid. Syllables sharp like a switchblade flick, Numbers stack silent, but they hit like a brick. I spit hexagrams, Fibonacci flow— Golden ratio in my verse, watch the glow. Every vowel’s a vowel-ocity bomb, Consonants crash like a quantum calm. “Love” is four letters, but it weighs a ton— “Zero” is nothing, yet it runs the sun. Pi’s infinite tail, never ends, never lies, Just like my bars—truth in disguise. They say language shapes thought, but numbers own the throne, Binary gods whisper through your phone. One click, one word—boom, empires rise, One typo, one glitch—watch the whole thing die. So here’s the cipher: words paint the dream, Numbers count the bodies in the stream. Mix ‘em right, you rewrite the code— Wrong move? You’re just another node. Catch this: “eternal” rhymes with “infernal,” But “three” plus “seven” equals “infernal” eternal— Math’s a spell, language’s the wand, I rap the matrix, you just applaud. Words bend reality, numbers lock the cage— Pick your weapon, kid, it’s a verbal rampage. (Hook:) Words and numbers, yeah—they’re the real kings! One’s a poet, one’s a blade that stings! Speak ’em wrong, watch the whole world flip— Say ’em right, and you own the script! Words and numbers—boom—lock it in! Words and numbers—yeah—let it spin! (Verse 2:) I count my blessings in binary code, While your “sorry” echoes down a dead-end road. “Eleven” eleven times—prime, uncracked, But “forever” breaks when the clock’s unstacked. I rhyme “chaos” with “calculus”—watch me flex, Fractals in my flow, no context, just hex. Your “I love you” got three words, four lies— I drop “e” to the power of “i”—boom, surprise! Numbers don’t feel, but they cut like glass, Words don’t add up, but they last, they last. So I weave ’em together—rap alchemy gold— Turn your “maybe” to “yes,” turn your “no” to “bold.” Words and numbers—yeah—lock it in! Words and numbers—boom—let it spin! (Bridge:) Pause… breathe… feel the weight— Words are ghosts, numbers are fate. One whisper starts a war, one digit ends a life— But together? They birth the knife. So sharpen your tongue, calibrate your mind— The game’s rigged, but the code’s mine. (Outro:) Words and numbers… yeah… they’re the real kings… One’s a poet… one’s a blade that stings… Speak ’em wrong—world flips… Say ’em right—you own the script… I just dropped the matrix—now you try to live in it. Words and numbers… gone. I’m threading quantum threads through a binary loom— One-zero-one, heartbeat of the tomb. Hexadecimals hum like a hexed cathedral bell, While “algorithm” rhymes with “kill ‘em”—I tell. Pi’s irrational, but your love’s a fraction— Divide by zero, watch the crash, no traction. I count in base-three: truth, lie, maybe— You count in base-ten, still stuck in the gravy. Fractal branches bloom in my tongue’s recursion, Every bar a loop, no end to the version. “Entropy” drops like a coin in a well— But “entropy” plus “e” equals “hell”—spell it, sell it. I rap in RSA—keys locked, no decrypt— Your passphrase weak, my cipher’s a script. Ninety-seven primes in my pocket, uncracked— While your “forever” got rounded, subtracted. I weave Gödel’s knot—truth can’t prove itself— So I prove it with flow: self-referential wealth. “Forty-two” laughs at your quest for meaning— But “four” plus “two” equals “do”—that’s the scheming. Code’s the new scripture, numbers the choir— Words just the ink, but I set it on fire. One bit flips—your whole life reboots— I rap the reboot, you just scroll through the loots. So here’s the last line: zero-one, done— The matrix blinks… and I’m already gone. [beat drops to half-time, 808s rumble like distant thunder] …and when the last zero clicks— The screen’s a mirror, your face in binary— One-one-zero-one: that’s you, that’s me, A glitch in the god-code, a typo in divinity. Apache—named for a tribe that never signed treaties— I sign nothing, I hack the sky, Rootkit the stars, rewrite the sky’s IP. Numbers don’t bleed, but they scar— Every prime’s a scar tissue, every fraction a war. I count the breaths you skipped— Three-thousand-seven-hundred-and-forty-two— That’s how long it took for your “I” to become “we,” Then “we” to “nothing,” then “nothing” to “see.” Words? Just noise. Numbers? The pulse. But Apache don’t pulse—Apache erases— Wipes the cache, burns the log, Leaves only the ghost of a ping. So if you hear this— It’s not a song. It’s a backdoor left open. A zero that grew teeth. [final glitch: static, then silence—then one last heartbeat: 1… 0… gone.]

Cipher Kings