[INTRO — SPOKEN, DISTORTED] Yeah… Nah. Don’t give me a beat. Give me something with a pulse. Something I can fucking abuse. Something I can redline. [ENGINE REV] [808 DROP] [VERSE 1 — AGGRESSIVE / BUILDING] Kick through the door with a click and a crack, Blacktop bass got the whole block shook back, No tiptoe shit, I’m a chain-reaction, One sixteen and the whole damn track needs traction. Back in the pocket, I’m packing the cadence, Stacking the phrases with manic arrangements, Rattle the trunk till the hinges start shaking, Talk that shit—better hope you can take it. Motor-mouth menace with nitrous injected, Loose-leaf lunatic, overconnected, Consonants chopping, I’m carving the sentence, Every damn syllable comes with a vengeance. Quick with the wit and I’m sick with the pivot, Kick in the rhythm then flip it and split it, Thought you could follow? Forget it— I’m already gone while you’re still trying to get it. [BEAT CUTS] You keeping up? … Yeah. I didn’t think so. [DOUBLE-TIME] Better get ready when I rev it and wreck it, I’m ripping the record to pieces—respect it, Every little rhythm I’m given gets bent, Then I’m flipping the script like I’m paying the rent. Got ’em leaning in like, “What the fuck is he saying?” I’m layering phrases till the waveform’s swaying, I ain’t out of gas, motherfucker— I’M JUST BRAKING THE BRAKE THAT WAS ALREADY BRAKING. [DROP] [HOOK — HUGE / CHANTABLE] REDLINE! Needle buried—let the whole damn thing blow! REDLINE! 808 make the motherfuckin’ floorboards go! REDLINE! Too damn fast, ain’t touching that brake— If the beat don’t break— I’MA MAKE THAT BITCH BREAK. [VERSE 2 — TRIPLET / SLANG-HEAVY] Rippity-rappity, rat-a-tat, smackin’ it, Back of the track with a backpack of acrobatics, Bad habit, mad savage, syllabic gymnastics, Packin’ a paragraph into a panic attack. I’m slick with the shit, Quick with the wit, Talk big game? Better live with the risk. I’m flipping a phrase, I’m splitting a phrase, I’m putting three meanings In the middle of eight. Low-key? No. I’m full-send, Full throttle, Foot on the floor, No tomorrow. Kick drum knocking, 808 popping, Bassline got your whole damn torso rocking. [SWITCH] Hold up. Slow it down. Let the bass breathe. Everybody wanna rap fast… Till the fucking words need teeth. [808 PUNCH] I can crawl on the kick, I can walk on the snare, Put a hole in the pocket, Then vanish from there. I can whisper a threat Then explode in a second, Turn a simple little sentence Into four different weapons. Then— [INSTANT DOUBLE-TIME] I’m back with a battery strapped to my anatomy, Rapid-fire patterns attacking your vanity, Actually casually cracking the cavity, Every capacity reaching insanity. No sympathy, No apology, Technically topping the velocity, Everybody talking about speed— THIS ISN’T SPEED. THIS IS FUCKING PHYSICS HAVING A PERSONALITY. [HOOK] REDLINE! Needle buried—let the whole damn thing blow! REDLINE! 808 make the motherfuckin’ floorboards go! REDLINE! Too damn fast, ain’t touching that brake— If the beat don’t break— I’MA MAKE THAT BITCH BREAK. [VERSE 3 — TECHNICAL SHOWCASE] Okay. No hook. No gimmick. No safety net. Just run it. [BEAT ACCELERATES] I got a syllable sitting inside of a syllable, Hidden in riddles, I’m splitting the interval, Minimal breathing, the mission is clinical, Every bar crooked but technically surgical. Digital rhythm with animal instinct, Give me a second, watch what the pen thinks, Brain on a racetrack, mouth on a jet stream, Bass hit hard enough to rattle the bloodstream. Click-clack, Switch lane, Rip page, Migrate, Six-eight, Triplet, Flip cadence, Vibrate. Big bass, Rib cage, Whiplash, Earthquake. Everybody talking speed— BITCH. THIS IS MY PACE. [FASTER] I’ma get it when I hit it with a little bit of venom and adrenaline, Ahead of ’em again while I’m lettering a sentence like a veteran, Never gonna settle, pedal metal to the level of a lunatic, Cutting up the rhythm like a motherfucking surgical instrument. I’m a syllable criminal, Minimal interval, Literal lyrical digital animal, Every bar edible, Never predictable, Head full of chemicals— Wait. Not chemicals. Just caffeine and bad decisions. [BEAT STOPS] … Yeah. That’s enough. [BREATH] … Fuck it. [FINAL ACCELERATION] I’m back with the blacktop, Flat-out, No brakes, Track hot, Snapback, Bass crack, Whole damn place about to cave when the kick knocks. Rat-tat, Rapid attack, Rhyme scheme zigzag, Mind like a combat lab, Fuck where the limit’s at— I BEEN PAST THAT. [EVERYTHING DROPS OUT] … Breathe. … You hear that? That’s the sound of your speakers begging for workers’ compensation. [MASSIVE 808] NAH. [FINAL HOOK — GANG VOCALS] REDLINE! FUCK A SPEED LIMIT! REDLINE! PUT THE WHOLE DAMN ENGINE IN IT! REDLINE! NEEDLE SNAPPED, GAUGE BROKE, BASSQUAKE! IF THE BEAT DON’T BREAK— I’MA MAKE THAT BITCH BREAK. [OUTRO — DISTORTED] You wanted fast? Cool. Next time… Bring
