[HARD KIDS RAP] [Boy Soprano Vocals] [G-FUNK] [Polyrhythmic Percussion] [Clear Midrange] [Tight Low End] [Dry/Wet Balance Optimized] [PROTOCOL: Funk bass for contrast. Schoolyard ambience in intro/outro] [Intro] (*kids murmuring, squeaky swings*) [Beatboxing] <808-slide> [Verse Beat Drops – Sparse Synth, Heavy Kick] [Verse 1] Teacher sez “walk” but the pavement knows, I drag these LA Lights through coded rows Nails on th' chalkboard leave marks when I pass– Don’t talk loud just kick fucka's ass Whole school froze when my Velcro hit, Silicon grip, lunch money legit Three trades deep now my desk got weight, They bringin’ up rules too little too late Kickball captains talkin code, gather in th' bathroom, power gets sold. No bullshit bars, just a sharpened Bic and a mind for math that hits too quick. [Chorus] Best believe I run this class, I don’t play pretend, Push my limits ‘til the bell rings again. And when I fall, I rise again, Got that hall pass, ain’t no way I’m banned. I’m the ruler now, black sheep on the swings, They count me out, but I’m still pullin’ strings. [Boy Soprano Harmony] [Layered Harmonies] [Minimal Synth] “Line up! Line up!” I ain’t moved since last Week Dodgin' my name, tho, they all afraid to speak Muthafuckas tremble when I raise my hand, ain't ask no questions, jus' take commands Lunchbox cold, but the rep is heat– Brought graham crackers? Better keep yer seat. Chalk lines fade where we post up heat, Crew hold court like we grade receipts. [Verse 2] Crayon red on the homework stack, Scribbled out names like a loyalty pact. Glue cap twist with a side-eye glance, When I pass this note, better note my stance. Jungle gym corner-meetin' at one, where th' worm pit bubble under Cali sun. My folder thick with infractions signed, But my crew stay quiet– reed between lines. Talk big at the cubbies, fall flat in th' hall. One slip-up? Got names fo the wall. Memory long, like the slide I rule. No peace here, I brung War to school. [Bridge] [Instrumental Drop – Just Bass + Vocals] (breath: steady) “You think I’m jokin’? Keep laughin’, see.” Silence hit when I brake that scene. (*triangle ping*) A crayon ain’t soft when it’s pushed with intent and paper cut’s Deep when a message is sent. [Chorus] Best believe I run this class, I don’t play pretend, Push my limits ‘til the bell rings again. And when I fall, I rise again, Got that hall pass, ain’t no way I’m banned. I’m the ruler now, black sheep on the swings, They count me out, but I’m still pullin’ strings. [Verse 3] [Full Beat Returns – Layered Percussion, Squeaky Shoes Loop] Mom packed string cheese– I sold it in halfs. Turned milk money flips into notebook graphs. I don’t bluff, just budget th' hits, In my folder got tabs on yo shit. Sent me to Ms. Stone, straight ass uptight bitch. She's goin' on, I’m thinkin’ exit routes. Shit Slipped a cheat sheet inside her Sub folder Now I’m th' reason recess run colder. Pullin' fire alarms? Don’t need dat smoke. Just show up at recess an' watch hopes choke. Ain't play no games, got just one plan: Rule this yard like a playground Stan. [Final Chorus] Lunch tray bang like a riot shield, I stack loose teeth when the deals get sealed. Took three pushpins, melted 'em down, Now I got a shiv in my pencil crown. Sold a hall pass to a sixth-grade mark, then wrote him up anyway cuz I'm that dark. My desk got range, my gaze got weight, Send two looks and decide yo fate. Glue stick cap with the wire insert, built a trip trap near the tetherball dirt. One wrong foot and the rulebook bends; laid that grid as th' means to yo end. Recess lockout? I still roam free. I got a janitor key and immunity. That’s real power– you on punishment time, I’m makin' Turf lines down in bold outline. I told that new kid: keep coughin’, see what lands. I thrown fuckas clean thru the basketball stands. Ask the sub from fall– she filed for leave, dropped her badge when her ass passed the vending machine. Dey call roll-call, I call in Shots. I draw Battle plans and connect-the-dots. You say “hands up”? I say “Hands tied.” You got light-up shoes I got override. Principal shook when my folder slid, cause nothing gets filed unless I Bid. I don't do show-and-tell, I do structured war and my boy with the stickers just locked the door. So go ‘head. Talk shit. Call names. I run this playground like the Hunger games. I don’t need the mic or a Class to teach; my message gets learnt when the swing chains screech. [Outro - Spoken, low] [Kids arguing faintly – fades out under synth chord]

(boy soprano) "You better Run at the bell..."