[INTRO — 4 BARS] [Distorted music box, detuned piano, heartbeat kick] [Whispered, low-pitched vocals] Tell me something... How the fuck do you sleep at night? How do you take from a family... Then go home and smile at yours? [Pitch drops] That's a special kind of sick. [808 DROP] [VERSE 1 — 16 BARS] [Technical aggressive rap, staccato delivery] Sick in the skull, got a grin full of venom, Got a system full of suits making bank off the desperate. Little kids in the cold, everybody acts pleasant, Count another fucking check, call the suffering a blessing. Click-click, paperwork, stamp that, send it, Family gets denied while the budget gets extended. Smile for the camera, got the funding announcement, Tell me where the help went, where's the fucking accounting? That's a predatory parody, charity with a salary, Selling us humanity, billing us for casualties. Every little tragedy magically becomes a fee, Everybody getting rich except the ones who fucking need. Got a dinner reservation, got a pretty little speech, While a father's in the parking lot with nothing left to eat. And you tell him, "Be patient," with your polished fucking teeth, Then you clock out for the weekend like there's nothing left to see. [HOOK — 8 BARS] [Gang shouts, distorted 808, aggressive response vocals] HOW SICK IN THE HEAD?! GOT YOUR FAMILY FED! WHILE ANOTHER LITTLE KID GOT NO FUCKING BED! HOW SICK IN THE HEAD?! COUNT THE MONEY INSTEAD! YOU CAN LAUGH AT THE TABLE WHILE THE REST GET LEFT FOR DEAD! [Low demonic whisper] Nothing to see... [Distorted shout] THEN WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY?! [VERSE 2 — 16 BARS] [Fast multisyllabic double-time, precise consonants] Administrative manipulation, calculated deprivation, Weaponized procrastination dressed as public administration. Every application, explanation, conversation, Gets another complication till you question the foundation. You got grants for the housing, got reports for the press, Got a polished little mission about relieving the stress. But if families keep falling through the holes in the net, Who the fuck is responsible for the promises you kept? I'm not saying every worker's got a criminal intention, I'm demanding actual records, independent intervention. If the numbers are legitimate, then show the calculation, If the payments are appropriate, explain the allocation. Don't confuse my desperation with a lack of education, I can read between your language and your scripted explanation. You can label me aggressive, call it insubordination, But a question ain't a threat, it's a demand for information. [FLOW SWITCH — TRIPLET RAP] [150 BPM, menacing clipped rhythm] Tick-tick-tick, another day gets wasted, Click-click-click, another form gets pasted. Big-big checks and a big celebration, Meanwhile a child waits on an explanation. Quick with the slogan, slow with the service, Pretty little website, tell me what's the purpose? Money got a pathway, people got a maze, Everybody says they're helping while we're counting down the days. [PRE-BREAKDOWN] [All instruments cut, lone piano] You went home. You kissed your kids goodnight. You ate your dinner. You laughed. And somewhere across this city... A family was wondering where they'd sleep. [DEATHCORE BREAKDOWN] [Drop F guitars, guttural layers, halftime slam] HOW! SICK! DO! YOU! HAVE! TO! BE?! [Two beats silence] TO CALL THIS SHIT HUMANITY?! [Ultra-low guttural] YOUR SMILE IS A MASK! YOUR PROMISE IS A LIE! IF YOU PROFITS FROM THE FALL, THEN EXPLAIN TO US WHY! [Blast beats] NOTHING TO SEE?! NOTHING TO SEE?! THEN OPEN THE FUCKING BOOKS AND LET THE WHOLE WORLD SEE! [VERSE 3 — 16 BARS] [Cold, controlled voice gradually becoming furious] L.A. got the palm trees, million-dollar views, Got a family with a blanket and a pair of children's shoes. Got another press conference about another funded plan, But the people in the trenches need a shelter, not a brand. I ain't jealous of your dinner, ain't offended by your wealth, I'm disgusted by the thought of getting paid to say you helped. If the system takes the credit while the family takes the fall, Then accountability should be the loudest word of all. Go ahead and call me crazy, call me bitter, call me loud, I got questions that deserve more than getting shuffled through the crowd. I ain't asking for your sympathy, your pity or your fame, I want every fucking dollar traced and every decision named. 'Cause my children aren't statistics you can bury in a chart, They are human fucking beings with a future and a heart. You can keep your empty slogans, you can keep your polished speech, But you can't call it compassion when the help stays out of reach. [FINAL HOOK — EXPLOSIVE] [Layered screams, technical rap doubles] HOW SICK IN THE HEAD?! GOT YOUR FAMILY FED! WHILE ANOTHER LITTLE KID GOT NO FUCKING BED! HOW SICK IN THE HEAD?! COUNT THE MONEY INSTEAD! GO ENJOY YOUR PRETTY DINNER, LET THE QUESTION FILL YOUR HEAD!
