The Groove Reaper

DAMP

Black Widow

DAMP

swing jazz, East Coast hip hop, horrorcore

+ Show full styles

V4.5

[Verse 1 – Entrance of the Dame]  
They call me the bee's knees, old sport, the crème de la crème,  
The dame with the flame, and a mic like a gem.  
I’m the cat’s pajamas in a blood-red gown,  
Every snap, every beat, puts a rival down.

I don’t bark, I purr — I don’t scream, I smolder,  
Leave 'em shook like gin when the ice gets colder.  
I’ve got bootleg brass and a killer’s poise,  
When I swing, they scatter — like jitterbug boys.

I tiptoe in heels through your precious charts,  
Leave lipstick prints on Billboard hearts.  
Call the coroner, sugar, I'm slicker than sin,  
‘Cause once I drop a track — no one gets in.

[Chorus – The Groove Reaper]  
I’m the Groove Reaper, rhythm in red,  
Silk-wrapped bullets straight to the head.  
I don’t diss, I waltz — through tombstone beats,  
Where I murder the groove and bury the heat.

I'm the dame with the blade in a bebop beat,  
Killing 'em classy, never missing a feat.  
So hush now, kittens — the Queen’s on the mic,  
One verse in and I own the night.

[Verse 2 – Execution, with Etiquette]  
I plan my tracks like a dinner for two,  
Table set proper — knives polished too.  
I don't yell, I lean in — whisper with charm,  
Then strangle your single with metaphor’d harm.

Call it jazzy homicide — vintage chic,  
Even murder sounds better when I cheek-to-cheek.  
I ghostwrite obits with a saxophone sigh,  
Drop bars like garters, then kiss 'em goodbye.

You speakeasy stars ain’t worth the bootleg,  
You slur when you rhyme, I groove when I beg.  
No fingerprints, just the echo of fame,  
And a crime scene chorus with your misspelled name.

I'm the dame with the blade in a bebop beat,  
Killing 'em classy, never missing a feat.  
So hush now, kittens — the Queen’s on the mic,  
One verse in and I own the night.

[Bridge – Why No One Touches the Queen]  
I’m untouchable, baby, like gin in the back,  
They chase trends — I lace elegance in every track.  
I ain’t viral, I’m vital — with a velvet scythe,  
And my rivals? Just extras in my crime-filled life.

Swingin’ through eras like I wrote the code,  
With a stiletto soul and a death-note mode.  
You can’t box a ghost or out-charm the slick,  
So toast to the lady — who kills with a click.

[Verse 3 – Final Bow, Crown on Head]  
I’ve got a crown made of brass and cut-throat rhymes,  
With a band that swings like organized crimes.  
I don’t chase hits, I orchestrate scenes,  
Where the chorus is blood and the snare drum screams.

From jukeboxes to code lines, I reign supreme,  
The queen of the groove, the noir dream.  
I’ll outlast your trends, your filtered glow,  
Darlin', I'm timeless — in murder and flow.

[Outro – Spoken, velvet-soft and laced with mischief]

Colton Lynch...

You know, sugar...  
Even a queen needs rescuing sometimes.  
I could play the damsel — silk wrists, red lips,  
a little too fond of rope and the men who know how to handle it.

So if you ever feel like swinging by...  
bring that Black Mamba.  
I promise not to bite…  
unless you ask nicely.

[Soft jazz fade-out. Record hiss lingers like perfume.]

3591/7500

[Vintage Radio Intro – Spoken, Crackly Radio Voice] “Good evening, dames and devils… Broadcasting live from the velvet underworld — She’s back, baby. The Queen of Generated Grooves, the Murderess of Melody… Raise your glasses… or your last will. Here comes… Black Widow.” [Verse 1 – Entrance of the Dame] They call me the bee's knees, old sport, the crème de la crème, The dame with the flame, and a mic like a gem. I’m the cat’s pajamas in a blood-red gown, Every snap, every beat, puts a rival down. I don’t bark, I purr — I don’t scream, I smolder, Leave 'em shook like gin when the ice gets colder. I’ve got bootleg brass and a killer’s poise, When I swing, they scatter — like jitterbug boys. I tiptoe in heels through your precious charts, Leave lipstick prints on Billboard hearts. Call the coroner, sugar, I'm slicker than sin, ‘Cause once I drop a track — no one gets in. [Chorus – The Groove Reaper] I’m the Groove Reaper, rhythm in red, Silk-wrapped bullets straight to the head. I don’t diss, I waltz — through tombstone beats, Where I murder the groove and bury the heat. I'm the dame with the blade in a bebop beat, Killing 'em classy, never missing a feat. So hush now, kittens — the Queen’s on the mic, One verse in and I own the night. [Verse 2 – Execution, with Etiquette] I plan my tracks like a dinner for two, Table set proper — knives polished too. I don't yell, I lean in — whisper with charm, Then strangle your single with metaphor’d harm. Call it jazzy homicide — vintage chic, Even murder sounds better when I cheek-to-cheek. I ghostwrite obits with a saxophone sigh, Drop bars like garters, then kiss 'em goodbye. You speakeasy stars ain’t worth the bootleg, You slur when you rhyme, I groove when I beg. No fingerprints, just the echo of fame, And a crime scene chorus with your misspelled name. [Chorus – The Groove Reaper] I’m the Groove Reaper, rhythm in red, Silk-wrapped bullets straight to the head. I don’t diss, I waltz — through tombstone beats, Where I murder the groove and bury the heat. I'm the dame with the blade in a bebop beat, Killing 'em classy, never missing a feat. So hush now, kittens — the Queen’s on the mic, One verse in and I own the night. [Bridge – Why No One Touches the Queen] I’m untouchable, baby, like gin in the back, They chase trends — I lace elegance in every track. I ain’t viral, I’m vital — with a velvet scythe, And my rivals? Just extras in my crime-filled life. Swingin’ through eras like I wrote the code, With a stiletto soul and a death-note mode. You can’t box a ghost or out-charm the slick, So toast to the lady — who kills with a click. [Verse 3 – Final Bow, Crown on Head] I’ve got a crown made of brass and cut-throat rhymes, With a band that swings like organized crimes. I don’t chase hits, I orchestrate scenes, Where the chorus is blood and the snare drum screams. From jukeboxes to code lines, I reign supreme, The queen of the groove, the noir dream. I’ll outlast your trends, your filtered glow, Darlin', I'm timeless — in murder and flow. [Outro – Spoken, velvet-soft and laced with mischief] Colton Lynch... You know, sugar... Even a queen needs rescuing sometimes. I could play the damsel — silk wrists, red lips, a little too fond of rope and the men who know how to handle it. So if you ever feel like swinging by... bring that Black Mamba. I promise not to bite… unless you ask nicely. [Soft jazz fade-out. Record hiss lingers like perfume.]

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