[Intro] (Sound of a sliding door, heavy breathing, a distant siren) The city don't sleep, it just holds its breath. Melly don't talk, he just checks the depth. Keep it a buck, the dirt is the only thing that's honest. [Verse] Cold steel pressing on a rental leather seat Forty-three times he played the rhythm of the street No cap, the city felt the tremor in the concrete While the 600 folded, he made the cycle complete Plugged in to the chaos, lowkey in the shadows Counting bodies like beads, winning all the battles He ain't chasing a stream or a viral clip on the feed Just a silent operator sowing every violent seed Slidin' through the South Side, fit matched to the night One hunnid on the trigger, turning midday to midnight THF46 in the rearview, fading like a ghost He the gravedigger now, playing the lethal host. [Chorus] Shyrack calling, he digging the hole Fifteen names etched in a dark kind of scroll No melody needed, the silence is the song Where the weak get folded and the hollows stay strong. [Verse] Deadass, the retaliation turned into a sport A courtroom of bullets, the street is the only court He flipped the script on the OT, left the rivals cooked Every corner he cleared, every witness got shook Highkey the menace, no need for a rap career The sound of the slide is the only thing they fear OTF felt the pressure, the grip was too tight Melly in his bag, turning neon lights to white He ate the whole game without a single verse written Just a cold-blooded grip where the target is bitten The cycle of the switch, the rhythm of the lead Planting seeds of sorrow till the pavement turned red. [Chorus] Shyrack calling, he digging the hole Fifteen names etched in a dark kind of scroll No melody needed, the silence is the song Where the weak get folded and the hollows stay strong. [Bridge] On god, the weight of the metal is a heavy crown A ghost in the city, the king of a broken town No W for the wicked, just a L for the dead The gravedigger's shovel puts the memory to bed. [Outro] (Beat slows down, heavy bass thumps like a heartbeat) Facts. The music was just a byproduct. The work was the real art. (Sound of a shovel hitting dirt) Period.
