Shit 2 🤬in’ High – Part III

gospel-infused funk, southern soul, lo-fi

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Yo, I am tired of this bullshit, real talk, let me testify in this mic booth,
They sell “American Dream” while repossessin’ the roof.
Agent Orange still trendin’ in they spirit, corruption in reruns,
Whole government playin’ chicken with paychecks like we pawns holdin’ stun guns.

This that Boyz n the Hood monologue, Doughboy in my throat,
Every time I see the news ignore the roots, I write a protest note.
They show the shit that bleeds, never who built the bomb in the budget,
We live in B-roll trauma, but the anchor just shrugs it.

The Wire taught me how they juggle stats, hide bodies in spreadsheets,
Call it “fiscal responsibility” while kids starve on backstreets.
I see mayors play both sides, photo-op in our pain,
Smile in front of boarded schools that they let rot in the rain.

From Fruitvale Station to Brooklyn blocks where Raheem lost breath,
We carry ghosts in our playlists, we stream documented death.
Every traffic stop feel like a cliffhanger with no script,
Officer hand on the holster, I am prayin’ my Black tone do not get flipped.

They love our slang, love our drip, love our rhythm, love our soul,
But when we say “this shit 2 fuckin’ high,” they quote a different scroll.
Tell us “budget cuts,” tell us “shortage,” tell us “tighten your belt,”
While they swim in bonus checks we can only Google and spell.

If this is “the greatest nation,” why my people ration dreams,
Why my mama stretch a paycheck like a laundromat machine.
We not violent, we just tired, we exhausted of the script,
You cannot gaslight a whole generation that watched every lie get clipped.

[Bridge – soulful Black male vocal with warm timbre, expressive melisma, slow-build intensity; rhyme accents float across alternating beat locations with gentle internal rhyme density.]

Who loves orange soda? Kel loves orange soda, that is fact,
Now orange soda cost a light bill, I cannot even buy my past back.
Little joys priced out, even nostalgia got a fee,
They taxin’ childhood memories like they own my history.

I am a choir kid turned bill collector of my own fears,
Countin’ blessings and overdrafts in the same set of tears.
If you feel this in your chest, you not crazy, you not weak,
You just livin’ in a country where the truth rarely speaks.

[Chorus – Final – soulful Black male vocal with triadic gospel harmony, full-bodied resonance, rhythmic conviction; rhyme accents return to alternating beat positions with slight variation.]

“Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” let the deacons say it, let the ushers say it too,
Light 2 fuckin’ high, faith 2 fuckin’ high, but we still pushin’ through.
We the backbone, we the floorboards, we the work that never sleeps,
While they toast on marble balconies, we guard the city in the cheap seats.

“Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” this not just anger, this is data in my veins,
Every receipt is a scripture, every overdraft a stain.
They want millionaires and serfs, not a soul in between,
But we the Boyz n the Hood, we the Wire, we the unseen scene.

“Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” I am Do the Right Thing in the heat,
I am Coates writin’ letters with this boom-bap heartbeat.
From Fruitvale to Atlanta, from the Tamborine stage to my block,
We the ones holdin’ this fragile country together while they laugh at the clock.

[Outro – Spoken – soulful Black male vocal with warm midrange timbre, gentle grit, spoken-word cadence; rhyme accents soften and drift into emotional release.]

So if you hear this, and your cart half-empty but your card half-broke,
You not alone, n*gga, you not crazy, you not the joke.
They trained us to blame ourselves for the shit they engineered,
But I see you, I hear you, your whole story is revered.

Snarlz, you lit the fuse, I just added my testimony to the flame,
Two voices, same struggle, different corners, same name.
This is not the end of the song, this is the start of a choir,
And we gon’ keep singin’ “Shit 2 fuckin’ High” till somebody put out this fire with justice,
Not silence.

4208/7500

[Rap Break – soulful Black male vocal with a subtle Southern accent, boom-bap grit, spoken-word intensity, streetwise lyricism; rhyme accents move across alternating beat positions with controlled articulation shifting into instinctive emotional release.] Yo, I am tired of this bullshit, real talk, let me testify in this mic booth, They sell “American Dream” while repossessin’ the roof. Agent Orange still trendin’ in they spirit, corruption in reruns, Whole government playin’ chicken with paychecks like we pawns holdin’ stun guns. This that Boyz n the Hood monologue, Doughboy in my throat, Every time I see the news ignore the roots, I write a protest note. They show the shit that bleeds, never who built the bomb in the budget, We live in B-roll trauma, but the anchor just shrugs it. The Wire taught me how they juggle stats, hide bodies in spreadsheets, Call it “fiscal responsibility” while kids starve on backstreets. I see mayors play both sides, photo-op in our pain, Smile in front of boarded schools that they let rot in the rain. From Fruitvale Station to Brooklyn blocks where Raheem lost breath, We carry ghosts in our playlists, we stream documented death. Every traffic stop feel like a cliffhanger with no script, Officer hand on the holster, I am prayin’ my Black tone do not get flipped. They love our slang, love our drip, love our rhythm, love our soul, But when we say “this shit 2 fuckin’ high,” they quote a different scroll. Tell us “budget cuts,” tell us “shortage,” tell us “tighten your belt,” While they swim in bonus checks we can only Google and spell. If this is “the greatest nation,” why my people ration dreams, Why my mama stretch a paycheck like a laundromat machine. We not violent, we just tired, we exhausted of the script, You cannot gaslight a whole generation that watched every lie get clipped. [Bridge – soulful Black male vocal with warm timbre, expressive melisma, slow-build intensity; rhyme accents float across alternating beat locations with gentle internal rhyme density.] Who loves orange soda? Kel loves orange soda, that is fact, Now orange soda cost a light bill, I cannot even buy my past back. Little joys priced out, even nostalgia got a fee, They taxin’ childhood memories like they own my history. I am a choir kid turned bill collector of my own fears, Countin’ blessings and overdrafts in the same set of tears. If you feel this in your chest, you not crazy, you not weak, You just livin’ in a country where the truth rarely speaks. [Chorus – Final – soulful Black male vocal with triadic gospel harmony, full-bodied resonance, rhythmic conviction; rhyme accents return to alternating beat positions with slight variation.] “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” let the deacons say it, let the ushers say it too, Light 2 fuckin’ high, faith 2 fuckin’ high, but we still pushin’ through. We the backbone, we the floorboards, we the work that never sleeps, While they toast on marble balconies, we guard the city in the cheap seats. “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” this not just anger, this is data in my veins, Every receipt is a scripture, every overdraft a stain. They want millionaires and serfs, not a soul in between, But we the Boyz n the Hood, we the Wire, we the unseen scene. “Shit 2 fuckin’ High,” I am Do the Right Thing in the heat, I am Coates writin’ letters with this boom-bap heartbeat. From Fruitvale to Atlanta, from the Tamborine stage to my block, We the ones holdin’ this fragile country together while they laugh at the clock. [Outro – Spoken – soulful Black male vocal with warm midrange timbre, gentle grit, spoken-word cadence; rhyme accents soften and drift into emotional release.] So if you hear this, and your cart half-empty but your card half-broke, You not alone, n*gga, you not crazy, you not the joke. They trained us to blame ourselves for the shit they engineered, But I see you, I hear you, your whole story is revered. Snarlz, you lit the fuse, I just added my testimony to the flame, Two voices, same struggle, different corners, same name. This is not the end of the song, this is the start of a choir, And we gon’ keep singin’ “Shit 2 fuckin’ High” till somebody put out this fire with justice, Not silence.

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