Shit 2 🤬in’ High – Part I

[Intro – soulful Black male vocal with a subtle Southern accent, warm midrange timbre, spoken-word cadence with controlled articulation shifting toward emotional release; rhyme placement moves across alternating beat positions in a four-bar cycle.] Snarlz, you wild as hell for that tag, bro. You said, “I know somebody who can write a stronger flow about the struggle.” You already did somethin’ most folks scared to do – you told the truth and put yo’ name on it. This shit hit different when you got kids, when you countin’ coins at Dollar Tree like it's Wall Street. We been flippin’ each other’s songs on Suno, iron sharpenin’ iron, so I am not here to out-rap you, I am here to stand next to you. You gave the sermon, I am just grabbin’ the mic for the altar call. Challenge accepted. [Verse 1 – soulful Black male vocal with a subtle Southern accent, tenor II to baritone range, smooth yet grounded tone, boom-bap rhythmic phrasing with dense internal rhymes; rhyme accents shift across beats in a controlled-to-instinctive pattern.] My credit look like a war zone, every statement is a crime scene, fuck it, Interest got me in a jumpsuit, warden is the prime rate, watching every digit. I am pickin’ which bill gets breath, like I am God over light switches, Cut the cable, cut the stove, still the landlord text like snitchin’ on the riches. Kids coughin’, clinic want a copay big as car notes, that shit feel satanic, So I ride brakes on the highway, pray the tank stretch long like a Boyz n the Hood panoramic. Ricky in the alley every time a Black dream bleed out on concrete, Doughboy on the porch in my chest, “they never show the system, only show the dead at our feet.” I am flippin’ through channels, it look like The Wire in every damn city, Stats cooked like dinner, they fix numbers while we microwave pity. School look like season four, lil’ kings tracked out to the block, Politicians argue on camera, but off-screen they pour Merlot on the stock. Agent Orange still lurkin’ in the group chat of the country, jokin’ on the timeline, Turned the Oval to a blooper reel, whole globe watchin’ this fuckin’ punchline. Ice Cube said “Arrest the President,” I felt that in my spine, Now I just want interest rates arrested, groceries given twenty to life for this grind. [Pre-Chorus – soulful Black male vocal with warm midrange timbre, gospel-influenced melisma, smooth R&B phrasing; rhyme emphasis shifts between alternating beat locations for tension and release.] Every aisle feel like Fahrenheit 9/11, cameras on the bombs, never on the broke, They fund a war before they fund a wage, laugh when we choke. Dollar Tree climbed to five, that is a robbery in fluorescent light, How the fuck a “bargain” store got me prayin’ in the aisle at night? [Chorus – soulful Black male vocal with triadic gospel harmonies, full-bodied resonance, melodic strength with rhythmic integrity; rhyme accents return on shifting beat positions with slight variations.] “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” that is the anthem, that is the choir on the block tonight, Rent 2 fuckin’ high, gas 2 fuckin’ high, even hope got a service charge on sight. We the ones that keep this broke machine somehow still alive, They throwin’ Gatsby parties while we DoorDash just to survive. “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” that is the prayer, that is the cuss in the same breath, Middle class disappearin’ like the credits after debt. They want millionaires and serfs, not a soul in between, But we the chorus in the street, you gon’ hear us through the screen. TO BE CONTINUED… The fight gets heavier in Part 2. Straight Like Dat