Perfectly Pleasant

[Hook – Third Voice (chanty, petty but playful)]
She don’t say much, but she see it all,
Reads every route, every swing, every ball.
Silent in the stands, but she ruthless after,
Whole game runnin’ in her head like a private chapter.
Show up late, jog drills, act bigger than you are?
She cookin’ you alive from the back of the yard.
She don’t rant, don’t post, don’t clap too loud,
But nobody safe when Mom up in the crowd.

[Verse 1 – Third Voice]
She the tall one, hoodie up, lean on the rail,
Clockin’ every lazy step like a paper trail.
Don’t cheer every swing, don’t gasp at a miss,
Just note who blames dirt and who owns that whiff.
Quiet mouth, but behind them eyes, it’s war,
Got a hit list of clowns she been keepin’ score.

You stroll in late with your slides half on,
Phone out, talk tough ’bout the grind you “on.”
She tag you quick, Nope, that dog don’t hunt,
You all noise, no lungs, all pose, no bunt.
You call kids “try‑hard” just for lovin’ the cage?
In her head you gettin’ folded by the page.

She don’t do small talk on the foul‑line fence,
She dissect footwork, angles, sense.
Sees who backs up throws, who drifts, who quits,
Who jogs through first, who “forgets” to sprint.
She ain’t say a word, but the scan run deep,
Whole bench gettin’ judged while they think she asleep.

[Hook – Third Voice]
She don’t say much, but she see it all,
Reads every route, every swing, every ball.
Silent in the stands, but she ruthless after,
Whole game runnin’ in her head like a private chapter.

[Verse 2 – Third Voice (on‑blast run)]
In her head she like, Coach got his boys, they can’t do no wrong,
Three clowns joggin, coach says “they got that dog”  all game long.
Got a captain with a pout, but you call that lead?
More worried ’bout trim than a read on speed.
Parents front row, fake scout in the stands,
Loud‑mouth friends talkin’ trash, check his girl in the stands.

Bench mob laughin’ like the team’s group chat,
Zero foul‑ball hustle, can’t move for a bat.
That one kid flexin’ like he runs this town,
Swung through three meatballs, still claimin’ that crown.
She label him fast: all hat, no herd,
More post than reps, more vibe than word.

And her own kid? Yeah, he on that list,
Jog one ground ball, that name get hissed.
She love him to death, but she don’t do lies,
Dog a drill once, he a clown in her eyes.
No scream from the fence, no rescue rope,
Just, That’s what you picked, now live with your slope.

You wanna be too cool? She’ll let you be,
She just adjust what she’ll ever believe.
You show up, lock in, she don’t say much,
Just one nod, slight clap, Yeah, that’s clutch.
But if you show late, talk big, play small,
In her mind you benched before you touch the ball.

[Final Hook / Outro – Third Voice]
She don’t say much, but she see it all,
Reads every route, every swing, every ball.
Silent in the stands, but she ruthless after,
Whole game runnin’ in her head like a private chapter.
Show up late, jog drills, act bigger than you are?
She cookin’ you alive from the back of the yard.
She don’t rant, don’t post, don’t clap too loud,
But nobody safe when Mom up in the crowd.

3506/7500

[Intro – Third Voice (spoken, amused)] Nah, not the loud one in the bleachers, Not the “my kid’s D1” hoodie preachers. I’m talkin’ ’bout the tall one, back row, Arms crossed, quiet like she don’t even know. No sign, no button, no team‑mom sash, But in her head? Whole roster gettin’ slashed. Old miles in her legs, still reads every path, She keep quiet little ledgers, hides from the clash. [Hook – Third Voice (chanty, petty but playful)] She don’t say much, but she see it all, Reads every route, every swing, every ball. Silent in the stands, but she ruthless after, Whole game runnin’ in her head like a private chapter. Show up late, jog drills, act bigger than you are? She cookin’ you alive from the back of the yard. She don’t rant, don’t post, don’t clap too loud, But nobody safe when Mom up in the crowd. [Verse 1 – Third Voice] She the tall one, hoodie up, lean on the rail, Clockin’ every lazy step like a paper trail. Don’t cheer every swing, don’t gasp at a miss, Just note who blames dirt and who owns that whiff. Quiet mouth, but behind them eyes, it’s war, Got a hit list of clowns she been keepin’ score. You stroll in late with your slides half on, Phone out, talk tough ’bout the grind you “on.” She tag you quick, Nope, that dog don’t hunt, You all noise, no lungs, all pose, no bunt. You call kids “try‑hard” just for lovin’ the cage? In her head you gettin’ folded by the page. She don’t do small talk on the foul‑line fence, She dissect footwork, angles, sense. Sees who backs up throws, who drifts, who quits, Who jogs through first, who “forgets” to sprint. She ain’t say a word, but the scan run deep, Whole bench gettin’ judged while they think she asleep. [Hook – Third Voice] She don’t say much, but she see it all, Reads every route, every swing, every ball. Silent in the stands, but she ruthless after, Whole game runnin’ in her head like a private chapter. [Verse 2 – Third Voice (on‑blast run)] In her head she like, Coach got his boys, they can’t do no wrong, Three clowns joggin, coach says “they got that dog” all game long. Got a captain with a pout, but you call that lead? More worried ’bout trim than a read on speed. Parents front row, fake scout in the stands, Loud‑mouth friends talkin’ trash, check his girl in the stands. Bench mob laughin’ like the team’s group chat, Zero foul‑ball hustle, can’t move for a bat. That one kid flexin’ like he runs this town, Swung through three meatballs, still claimin’ that crown. She label him fast: all hat, no herd, More post than reps, more vibe than word. And her own kid? Yeah, he on that list, Jog one ground ball, that name get hissed. She love him to death, but she don’t do lies, Dog a drill once, he a clown in her eyes. No scream from the fence, no rescue rope, Just, That’s what you picked, now live with your slope. You wanna be too cool? She’ll let you be, She just adjust what she’ll ever believe. You show up, lock in, she don’t say much, Just one nod, slight clap, Yeah, that’s clutch. But if you show late, talk big, play small, In her mind you benched before you touch the ball. [Final Hook / Outro – Third Voice] She don’t say much, but she see it all, Reads every route, every swing, every ball. Silent in the stands, but she ruthless after, Whole game runnin’ in her head like a private chapter. Show up late, jog drills, act bigger than you are? She cookin’ you alive from the back of the yard. She don’t rant, don’t post, don’t clap too loud, But nobody safe when Mom up in the crowd.

0/500