Shit 2 🤬in’ High – Part II

gospel-infused funk, southern soul, lo-fi

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Government shut down, 42 days of pure nonsense, we back open but the damage stay,
Whole country held hostage over ego, like bills and babies could hit “delay.”
Forty-two days of “maybe tomorrow,” like rent pause when the Senate freeze,
The longest shutdown in history, and for what? Some stupid fuck who love chaos more than peace.

This feel like Do the Right Thing on the hottest day God ever pressed,
Radio Raheem in my chest, love and hate on my knuckles while I am underdressed.
Cops choke budgets and Black necks in the same damn breath,
System only hear us when a precinct burns or a mama wails over death.

Fruitvale flashbacks every time I ride the train, I see Oscar in the glass,
Tryin’ to be a better man with twenty in his pocket and a target on his Black ass.
Between the World and Me in my glove box, Coates ridin’ shotgun with my doubt,
I am writin’ verses like letters to my future child, “Baby, here is how we made it out.”

Atlanta in my skull, I am “Alligator Man” broke, but I still crack jokes,
Earn in a storage unit, countin’ every coin, prayin’ WiFi never go ghost.
Fifty dollars turn family drama into police with guns at the door,
We improvise miracles daily while the state improvise one more war.

[Pre-Chorus 2 – soulful Black male vocal with smooth R&B shading and gospel warmth, rhythmic phrasing with internal rhyme density; rhyme accents move between alternating beat positions.]

Chris Rock with the tambourine, laughin’ so I do not cry on stage,
Talkin’ rent, talkin’ alimony, talkin’ how the country married to rage.
They tell us “work harder” while they edit the ladder and raise the sky,
How the fuck you preach bootstrap gospel when the boots cost half my supply?

[Chorus – soulful Black male vocal with triadic gospel harmony, warm timbre, resonant delivery; rhyme accents return on alternating beat locations with variation.]

“Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” scream it till the ceiling tiles start to shake,
Groceries 2 fuckin’ high, meds 2 fuckin’ high, even days off hard to take.
We the ones that keep this fragile country barely on its feet,
They throwin’ Gatsby parties while we Uber through the sleet.

“Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” that is communion, that is wine in a paper cup,
We toast survival every payday, then the shit get drunk and give up.
They want millionaires and serfs, not a soul in between,
But we the choir and the sermon, we the unseen scene.

TO BE CONTINUED…
The fire hits full flame in Part 3. Straight Like Dat

2746/7500

[Verse 2 – soulful Black male vocal with a subtle Southern accent, tenor II to baritone range, expressive boom-bap phrasing with autobiographical realism; rhyme accents move across alternating beat positions, shifting from grounded articulation to instinctive emotional texture.] Government shut down, 42 days of pure nonsense, we back open but the damage stay, Whole country held hostage over ego, like bills and babies could hit “delay.” Forty-two days of “maybe tomorrow,” like rent pause when the Senate freeze, The longest shutdown in history, and for what? Some stupid fuck who love chaos more than peace. This feel like Do the Right Thing on the hottest day God ever pressed, Radio Raheem in my chest, love and hate on my knuckles while I am underdressed. Cops choke budgets and Black necks in the same damn breath, System only hear us when a precinct burns or a mama wails over death. Fruitvale flashbacks every time I ride the train, I see Oscar in the glass, Tryin’ to be a better man with twenty in his pocket and a target on his Black ass. Between the World and Me in my glove box, Coates ridin’ shotgun with my doubt, I am writin’ verses like letters to my future child, “Baby, here is how we made it out.” Atlanta in my skull, I am “Alligator Man” broke, but I still crack jokes, Earn in a storage unit, countin’ every coin, prayin’ WiFi never go ghost. Fifty dollars turn family drama into police with guns at the door, We improvise miracles daily while the state improvise one more war. [Pre-Chorus 2 – soulful Black male vocal with smooth R&B shading and gospel warmth, rhythmic phrasing with internal rhyme density; rhyme accents move between alternating beat positions.] Chris Rock with the tambourine, laughin’ so I do not cry on stage, Talkin’ rent, talkin’ alimony, talkin’ how the country married to rage. They tell us “work harder” while they edit the ladder and raise the sky, How the fuck you preach bootstrap gospel when the boots cost half my supply? [Chorus – soulful Black male vocal with triadic gospel harmony, warm timbre, resonant delivery; rhyme accents return on alternating beat locations with variation.] “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” scream it till the ceiling tiles start to shake, Groceries 2 fuckin’ high, meds 2 fuckin’ high, even days off hard to take. We the ones that keep this fragile country barely on its feet, They throwin’ Gatsby parties while we Uber through the sleet. “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” that is communion, that is wine in a paper cup, We toast survival every payday, then the shit get drunk and give up. They want millionaires and serfs, not a soul in between, But we the choir and the sermon, we the unseen scene. TO BE CONTINUED… The fire hits full flame in Part 3. Straight Like Dat

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