[Verse 1] Cardboard down on the concrete Couple crates, two wires, one plug DJ spinning in a staircase hallway Extension cord running past the rug Moms yelling out the window, "turn that down" Kids in the circle like, "turn that up" Milk crates holding up the speakers Whole damn building felt the sub Project benches as the front row Streetlight halo on the mic stand Homemade flyers on the lamppost Five dollars, get stamped on the right hand Before the charts, before the contracts Just the boom and the breath in a small room Basement party turned block tradition Little echo in a borrowed broom [Verse 2] Park jam popping by the handball court Chalk lines dust on the old blacktop Turntables balanced on a folding table Needles jumping when the ball backdrops Coolers full, ice water, quarter juices Somebody uncle with the Marlboro cough Kids practicing their windmills, headspins Shell toes sliding till the rubber wore off Graffiti names racing on the subway doors Tag on the map while the city still slept Whole line singing like a moving mural Every stop saw the color we kept It was breakbeats stolen from the disco stacks Chopped up drums, never paid that fee We just looped what spoke to our hunger Made a language out of empty pantry [Verse 3] Park side preacher with the fat mic cord Calling out stories that the news won't touch Dice game, raid, rent late, food stamps All in the rhyme, never watered too much Brownstone cracks, roaches in the hallway Stairwell echo turning pain into proof Teenage poet in a bubble down jacket Writing punchlines on the back of a school roof Battles on the corner like courtroom trials Every bar weighed, every stumble got clowned No trophies, just pride and a crowd reaction If you choked once, they would shut you down But if you cooked? They would scream your name Pass you the crown, pass you the flame From one block cipher to the next borough over Whole city humming that same old game [Chorus] From block parties to billboards now Same loud mouth, just a bigger crowd From hallway echoes to world tour sound We still New York, still hold it down From milk crates straight to the marble floors But the scuff on my Timbs says "check the score" You can dress it up, fly first class through the clouds But it started on the corner, yelling rhymes too loud (yeah) [Verse 4] Label office sitting forty floors up Suit points out at the skyline glow Asks, "Can you soften up that language? Make it friendly for the late-night show?" But the pen still smells like stairwell smoke Still remembers when the lights went black When the landlord locked that hallway gate And the heat cut out, whole family in black We carried speakers like they were our cousins Up five flights, didn't have no lift Now the flight attendant knows my name Same voice that once got the cop's side eye shift Streaming numbers looking like lottery shots Tour bus parking by the garden gate But I still hear the early morning trash trucks Backing up beats in the alley we ate [Verse 5] City got cleaned, corners got condos Old crews scattered like dust in the vent Kids still cypher by the closed-up storefront Phone light flash where the payphone went Some say culture got too commercial Some say finally got paid what it's worth I just see verses on every billboard Same slang stretching across the earth Tokyo trains with the fitted cap tilt London rain on the bubble coat shine Little kid in Ghana with the Yankee brim low Practicing patterns from a Bed-Stuy rhyme We turned one block into a world-sized echo Every accent hitting that pocket just right But deep in the bass there's a borough still barking Whole globe nods to that first park night [Verse 6] So when I speak, I still keep that snap Short fuse temper, long walk home Train car sermon with the headphones leaking Side-eye sharp like a razor phone I cut through small talk, straight to the center Ask
