Keep the Receipt

STUDIO

[Title]
Till the Bill Comes Home

[Verse 1 — conversational pocket; delayed rhyme landings; do not punch every end rhyme]
New rate, same wage. Run it back by hand.
Tariff threat. Terms could change again.
Dealer slides the worksheet, follows with a pen.
Read the loan renewal, put a line through other plans.
Buyer sees the payment, lets the silence sit.
Markets twitch, figures switch, algorithms trade the fear.
I turn the package sideways: same price, less in here.
“Keep the car another winter.” Never signs the slip.
I price the meat, revise the week, leave something that I need.
“Receipt?” She asks me twice. The scanner chirps between.
I nod. She tears it free. I fold it while the next cart waits.
Small enough to pocket. Too much to throw away.

[Hook — short, dry, rhythmic; leave space after each line]
Feels far away till the bill comes home.
Big talk through a cracked-screen phone.
Just numbers till they know your street.
Take one off. Keep the receipt.

[Verse 2 — clipped opening; monorhyme burst, then open into alternating rhyme]
Camera crews. A curbside view. The same patrol comes through.
I stop the scroll. The footage rolls again across the news.
A loan ad loads beneath the clip. “Preapproved” in blue.
Power looks enormous when it fills an avenue.
A deportation order with your name in type.
One desk logs the handoff. Next desk checks your name.
A boarding time. A guarded line. A one-way flight.
Your sister has the number; then the route gets changed.
She keeps the ringer turned up, plugs the charger in.
“Transferred” fits a status box. Your sister waits alone.
You keep the paper folded where the corner’s wearing thin.
Her dinner’s cold beside her when your voice comes through the phone.

[Hook — same pocket; fewer backing layers]
Feels far away till the bill comes home.
Big talk through a cracked-screen phone.
Just numbers till they know your street.
Take one off. Keep the receipt.

[Bridge — drums thin to bass and receipt chirp; alternating rhyme, natural dialogue]
Neighbor at town hall, handout flat across his lap.
“How close? How loud? Who pays to run the line?”
Data-center pitch. He finds his fence across the map.
They click to “Benefits.” “Go back one slide.”
“Connection costs aren’t set.” He looks back at the map.
“Then put that in the text. You haven’t got my yes.”
History isn’t marble while the ink is warm and black—
it’s the total at the register deciding what comes next.

[Final Hook — drums return; firm lead, restrained doubles]
Feels far away till the bill comes home.
Big talk through a cracked-screen phone.
Just numbers till they know your street.
Take one off. Keep the receipt.

[Post-Hook — strip to dry lead, kick, bass; alternating payoff rhyme]
“Take that one off.” She voids it. I hold out the card.
Late August. One more receipt curled in my hand.
Payment approved. One less dinner in the cart.
Big words in Washington. Small print where they land.

[Outro — drums cut]
Everything is distant—

[Receipt tears]
—till the bill comes home.

[Hard Stop]

3260/7500

[Intro — close spoken lead; receipt printer; no drums] Late August, receipt curled in my palm. Screen above the counter running breaking-news alarms. They say “billions.” I check what is left. Rent goes first. Then I work out the rest. [Title] Till the Bill Comes Home [Verse 1 — conversational pocket; delayed rhyme landings; do not punch every end rhyme] New rate, same wage. Run it back by hand. Tariff threat. Terms could change again. Dealer slides the worksheet, follows with a pen. Read the loan renewal, put a line through other plans. Buyer sees the payment, lets the silence sit. Markets twitch, figures switch, algorithms trade the fear. I turn the package sideways: same price, less in here. “Keep the car another winter.” Never signs the slip. I price the meat, revise the week, leave something that I need. “Receipt?” She asks me twice. The scanner chirps between. I nod. She tears it free. I fold it while the next cart waits. Small enough to pocket. Too much to throw away. [Hook — short, dry, rhythmic; leave space after each line] Feels far away till the bill comes home. Big talk through a cracked-screen phone. Just numbers till they know your street. Take one off. Keep the receipt. [Verse 2 — clipped opening; monorhyme burst, then open into alternating rhyme] Camera crews. A curbside view. The same patrol comes through. I stop the scroll. The footage rolls again across the news. A loan ad loads beneath the clip. “Preapproved” in blue. Power looks enormous when it fills an avenue. A deportation order with your name in type. One desk logs the handoff. Next desk checks your name. A boarding time. A guarded line. A one-way flight. Your sister has the number; then the route gets changed. She keeps the ringer turned up, plugs the charger in. “Transferred” fits a status box. Your sister waits alone. You keep the paper folded where the corner’s wearing thin. Her dinner’s cold beside her when your voice comes through the phone. [Hook — same pocket; fewer backing layers] Feels far away till the bill comes home. Big talk through a cracked-screen phone. Just numbers till they know your street. Take one off. Keep the receipt. [Bridge — drums thin to bass and receipt chirp; alternating rhyme, natural dialogue] Neighbor at town hall, handout flat across his lap. “How close? How loud? Who pays to run the line?” Data-center pitch. He finds his fence across the map. They click to “Benefits.” “Go back one slide.” “Connection costs aren’t set.” He looks back at the map. “Then put that in the text. You haven’t got my yes.” History isn’t marble while the ink is warm and black— it’s the total at the register deciding what comes next. [Final Hook — drums return; firm lead, restrained doubles] Feels far away till the bill comes home. Big talk through a cracked-screen phone. Just numbers till they know your street. Take one off. Keep the receipt. [Post-Hook — strip to dry lead, kick, bass; alternating payoff rhyme] “Take that one off.” She voids it. I hold out the card. Late August. One more receipt curled in my hand. Payment approved. One less dinner in the cart. Big words in Washington. Small print where they land. [Outro — drums cut] Everything is distant— [Receipt tears] —till the bill comes home. [Hard Stop]

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