[Intro - 4 bars - spoken] Damn, you thought that was good? Couldn’t catch a word of what you said. KB. Street-With-Class. R.C.W. Productions. You want KB-Quick? Cool—now listen. [Verse 1 - 8 bars] Alarm in the dark; I spark—back to grind. Boots on the floor, out the door—blank mind. Coffee, coat, cold commute—train to site. Bills on my brain, pain in the lane—still write. Badge on my chest, cash for the stress—rent due. Dream in my fist, ink in my wrist—next move. Hands on the tools, rules for the wage—rage stays. Working for now, learning the how—switch days. [Hook - 8 bars] Clock in, locked in, boxed by the budget. Mind spins, rhyme wins—never gonna dull it. Work pays rent, but my soul wants stages. Night turns bars; I stack clean pages. Time-sheet, tired feet—still keep moving. Dreams beat grind; that’s proof I’m proving. They say “stay”; I say “wait”—shift quicker. Day job, same grind—big dream bigger. [Verse 2 - 8 bars] Hardhat, cold breath, no rest—hands full of wire. Boss says “do more,” I endure—heat in the fire. Tape on the frame, same old game—name on the sheet. Back stiff, wrists quick—still I keep a beat. Lunch in the van, plan in my hand—notes in my phone. Bars in my head, thread by thread—I build alone. They talk about weekends; I tweak my cadence. I forge my future with grit, patience, and patience. [Verse 3 - 8 bars] Overtime text, “need you”—I sigh, then I go. Money says “yes,” but my chest says “no”—still I show. Rap in the hallway, small breaks, hard days—quiet. Pen on the paper, prayer in my flavor—riot. Co-workers laugh; I craft the draft—mask doubt. I don’t want “someday,” I want runway—mapped out. Double-flow drills, stacked skills—snap quicker. Workday to nightfall, I write—get quicker. [Hook - 8 bars] Clock in, locked in, boxed by the budget. Mind spins, rhyme wins—never gonna dull it. Work pays rent, but my soul wants stages. Night turns bars; I stack clean pages. Time-sheet, tired feet—still keep moving. Dreams beat grind; that’s proof I’m proving. They say “stay”; I say “wait”—shift quicker. Day job, same grind—big dream bigger. [Verse 4 - 8 bars] Bills in a pile, smile for a while—shield up. Debt in the details, emails and retail—sealed up. Friends hit the bar; I hit the art—alone. Same clock, same cost, but I’m done being owned. Study the craft, draft after draft—jaw tight. Turn every “can’t” into “watch”—raw bite. No pity, no panic, just daily mechanics. I build my exit with sweat, bars, and habits. [Verse 5 - 8 bars] Night shift to morning, warning lights burning—eyes sore. Post a small snippet, grip it, then flip it—try more. Views feel slow, ego low—still I won’t fold. Growth takes time; I climb that line—cold gold. Room full of echoes, demos and metros—balance. Clocking a living, blocking my vision—challenge. If I fall, I fall forward—report it in rhythm. No shortcuts, just work—wordwork that fits ’em. [Hook - 8 bars] Clock in, locked in, boxed by the budget. Mind spins, rhyme wins—never gonna dull it. Work pays rent, but my soul wants stages. Night turns bars; I stack clean pages. Time-sheet, tired feet—still keep moving. Dreams beat grind; that’s proof I’m proving. They say “stay”; I say “wait”—shift quicker. Day job, same grind—big dream bigger. [Bridge - 12 bars] Tired trading my time for a title that’s thin. Stacking these hours like towers—still caged within. I want the mic as my job, and the job as my art. Not “maybe,” not “later”—I’m carving my part. Schedule the practice; handle the tactics—focus. Cut distractions; drop bad habits—no excuses. One verse a day; then rework the display—repeat. Stack reps till stress gets less—relief. If I’m afraid, I don’t hide—I write where it hurts. Turn bruise into proof; turn truth into work. When the door finally opens, I’m ready—locked. I walk in with purpose; I work like a surgeon—sharp. [Verse 6 - 8 bars] Tomorrow I punch in, but I’m not punching out dreams. I’m building a bridge from the grit, wit, and schemes. Respect to the work, but I’m done being “fine.” I want the stage, not the cage—so I’m training my time. Clean exit, no pity, no petty—direction. Pressure to power, hour by hour—correction. So when I go rapid, I’m mapping the motion. Workday warrior, night-time author—devotion. [Hook - 8 bars] Clock in, locked in, boxed by the budget. Mind spins, rhyme wins—never gonna dull it. Work pays rent, but my soul wants stages. Night turns bars; I stack clean pages. Time-sheet, tired feet—still keep moving. Dreams beat grind; that’s proof I’m proving. They say “stay”; I say “wait”—shift quicker. Day job, same grind—big dream bigger. [Outro - 4 bars - spoken] Same boots, same route—new goals in my head. They clock my hours, not my power— watch me get fed. KB. Street-With-Class. R.C.W. Productions. You wanted quick? Here’s quick—purpose in motion.
