[Intro] (A slow, opulent, but distorted synth arpeggio repeats. Heavy, isolated 808s hit deep.) Look at this view, muthafucka... They built this city just for me to smoke in. Ha! [Verse 1] Thirty-third floor, penthouse suite, the air is thick with smoke and lies, I'm lounging on a couch made from the silk of shattered dreams and broken ties. You think the money cleans your hands? It just buys you a better brand of dirt, I watch the mortals hustle down there, putting in the work to make my own wealth hurt. I own the deeds to half the skyline, the other half is collateral on a debt, I never step outside, why should I? I haven't finished what I started yet. Every high-rise, every gleaming window is just a mirror reflecting my design, I am the addiction they feed, the poison that makes their whole gawddamn life shine. (Ad-lib, low and menacing): Yeah, pop another one, bitch. [Pre-Chorus] (The beat slightly picks up pace with sharp hi-hats, building tension.) They call it progress, they call it growth, I call it perfect, slow decay, They worship the dollar bill, and the dollar bill worships me every day. I'm just a silent partner in every single felony and fraud, I'm laid back, sipping on pure chaos, never giving praise to any damn gawd. [Chorus] (The bass drops to a crushing, slow groove. The voice is pure, confident swagger.) This is the Penthouse of Perpetual Sin, the only residency I claim, I’m high as FHUC, watching the fire spread, whispering your stupid name. Deep gravelly breathing, rolling up another contract made of sorrow, You sold your future for this moment, but I own all your tomorrows. I ain't stressed, I ain't rushing, my energy is dangerous and low, I collect the tithe in flesh and fear, watching the good times overflow. FHUC IT! [Verse 2] I gave them greed, they made me rich; I gave them lust, they made me strong, They write their laws and break their faith, proving where they truly belong. I keep the finest whiskey that tastes like the tears of a failed saint, The art on the wall is stolen masterpieces, smeared with spiritual taint. You’re out there fighting traffic, stressed out over rent and time, I'm watching a muted news report on another senseless, beautiful crime. I can afford to be slow, I can afford to be slurred, I can afford to be mean, I own the players, the stadium, and the fhuckin whole damn scene. (Smoky chuckle and cough): Burn it down! Ha! [Bridge] (The 808s isolate, creating deep, echoing spaces. The vocal is intimate and threatening.) Don't think that because I'm relaxed that I've forgotten who you are, I know the exact location of every single weakness, every single scar. You wanted power, you got a loan, and now the interest is due, You see the velvet curtain? It's just hiding the endless debt I owe to you. I'm intoxicated, yeah, but the numbers in my ledger are always clear, I own your shadow, your reflection, and your final, choking fear. (Slurred whisper, sharp): You're a lease, not an asset, a-hole. [Chorus] (Full power return. The beat is overwhelming, gothic trap intensity.) This is the Penthouse of Perpetual Sin, the only residency I claim, I’m high as FHUC, watching the fire spread, whispering your stupid name. Deep gravelly breathing, rolling up another contract made of sorrow, You sold your future for this moment, but I own all your tomorrows. I ain't stressed, I ain't rushing, my energy is dangerous and low, I collect the tithe in flesh and fear, watching the good times overflow. Gawddamn right! [Outro] (The beat slows, the synth arpeggio distorts and fades out.) (Gravelly, fading laughter): Enjoy the view from down there, muthafucka. It gets better when you stop fighting... (Final, distorted exhale and a slow, dying 808 pulse.)
