[Intro – low preacher, beat creeping in] No breath. No pause. No crown made clean. Sixteen hooves in the dark. Buzern run it. [Verse 1 – continuous 16-syllable double-time] I came out the mud with a mouth full of thunder and scripture that rattled the floor, Black creek preacher with a rail-line fever and a storm horse kicking the door. They talk about kings but the crown look rented and the gold got painted too thin, I walk with a monster that learned from the pain and turned every bruise into wind. Hoofbeat surgical, cutting the pattern and splitting the counterfeit spine, Every syllable snapping like tack in a storm when the lightning is chewing the pine. No mercy for makers that market a kingdom and borrow the sound of the rail, I buried my name in the mud so deep that the dead trees whisper the tale. [Hook – still fast, heavy stomp] Sixteen hooves and the black rail bending whenever the low end swings, No man made me, no scene claimed me, no soft little crown makes kings. Storm in the stall and the door gone splintered and the whole damn Hollow sings, Don’t make me come out that stall, boy — let the storm horse spread them wings. [Verse 2 – more aggressive] I ride where the fog got teeth in the ditch and the creek talks back in tongues, 808 buried below the floor like a heartbeat trapped in the lungs. Buzern breathing like coal smoke rolling from a barn that survived being cursed, Every bar got a hoofprint burned in the dirt where the old fear scattered first. Scalpel cadence, I cut through the tissue and pull out the rot by the root, Brain-stem rhythm with a black-glove grip and a copperhead under the boot. They polish the surface, I operate deeper where pain turns pressure to art, I stitch up the wound with a triplet flow then carve my brand in the heart. [Hook – bigger] Sixteen hooves and the black rail bending whenever the low end swings, No man made me, no scene claimed me, no soft little crown makes kings. Storm in the stall and the door gone splintered and the whole damn Hollow sings, Don’t make me come out that stall, boy — let the storm horse spread them wings. [Verse 3 – peak double-time, no pauses] Verdict is moving, the ground is approving, the mud knows the weight of the name, Lightning is crawling through black mane river and turning the rail into flame. No bit and no bridle, no hand on the leather could choke out the blood in his chest, He walks like a warning from God to the cruel who mistook every silence for rest. Dead things lean when the storm horse passes and the black creek opens its throat, Ghosts start naming the hands that hurt him while the rain writes dirt on their coat. Every bruise that they gave him became a percussion that rattles the sky and the floor, Broken things look at Buzern and know there are monsters that guard what got tore. [Bridge – preacher growl, beat drops but flow stays tight] Don’t crown me clean if the mud ain’t on it and the rail ain’t under the sound, Don’t call me king if the horse ain’t moving and the storm ain’t shaking the ground. Don’t borrow my hoofbeat and dress it in velvet like thunder can fit in a cage, I came from the stall where the pain turned myth and the myth turned loose on the stage. [Final Verse – hardest run] Rail-born, storm-sworn, low-end crowned with a blackwater mark on my soul, Fast bars kicking like back-stall panic when the Hollow is taking control. Tongue like a trigger, the snare like a hammer, the kick like a hoof through the pine, I don’t chase lanes, I make roads fold when Buzern steps over the line. They made little kings out of smoke and mirrors, I brought out the weather instead, Tin roof screaming, the barn lights shaking, the creek rising up from the dead. Sixteen syllables, sixteen hooves, sixteen warnings carved into rain, Don’t make me come out that stall, boy — I ain’t going back on the chain. [Outro – spoken preacher, 808 fading] That wasn’t a crown. That was hoofbeats. That wasn’t a throne. That was thunder. And Buzern don’t ask permission.
