[Intro – Solo Male Spoken] Don’t hand me a thesaurus. Hand me a snare. [Verse 1 – Solo Male Rap | Tight Pocket] Mouth full of matches — I strike when the syllables scrape, Spark in the syntax — then stitch every rhythm in place, Kick in the cabinet, crackle the consonants, rattle the frame, Battler vernacular — practical damage with patterns in chains. I’m bending a sentence till tension develops a bend in the bar, Threading the needle with vowels — then revving the breath like a car, Clatter of language, a spanner in grammar, a hammer in hand, Turn a phrase into scaffolding — stand it while wrecking the plan. High-vis hieroglyphs — scribbled in dust on the side of the ute, Servo-shot caffeine — sharpening every irrational route, I can make “ordinary” orbit — contort it, then torch it for sport, Rhyme in a rhyme in a rhyme — like a drawer with a false little floor. No filler for dinner — I simmer the middle and season the ends, Every internal returns with a cousin and circle of friends, Meaning keeps mutating — phonetics keep opening doors in the dark, I don’t go hunting for rhymes — I make noise till the meaning gets sparked. [Chorus – Female Singer Only | Male Ad-Libs Underneath] Mouth full of matches — strike when I speak, Fire in the phrasing — wire in the beat, Words keep multiplying — line after line, If the tongue can turn a corner, I’m taking it blind. Mouth full of matches — breath full of smoke, Joke inside a threat, little threat inside a joke, No gaps in the pattern, no drag in the rhyme, I don’t rap over the rhythm — I redesign time. [Verse 2 – Same Solo Male Rapper | Cadence Climb] I’m a verbal vandal with a panel-beaten palate, making malice sound musical, Balancing ballast and banter, battering patterns till panic looks beautiful, Casually carrying calculus cadence — count it, then cut it in half, Add a beat, subtract sleep, multiply pressure — divide by a laugh. I can pivot a pun into pain, put pain into play, put play in perspective, Make a dead-end phrase do a three-point turn, then reverse the direction, Every stress has a purpose, the surface works, the subtext is lifting, You hear one line in the moment — three more arrive when your memory shifts it. Back when the battle was everything, arrogance sharpened the edge of the blade, Now I can carve with restraint — let the silence explain what the younger me sprayed, Still got the mongrel in muzzle, the muscle-memory tucked in the cheek, I just taught it to heel till the drum says “release” — then it’s off of the leash. [Beat Switch – Same Solo Male Rapper | Double-Time] Riddle me rhythm, I’m riddled with rhythm — a little bit sick with the symmetry, Spinning a synonym into its opposite, locking them both in the imagery, Minimal oxygen, maximum motion, immaculate panic in miniature, Packing a paragraph flat in a bar, then unpacking it live in the listener. Click-clack, tongue like a typewriter, bright little riot in black and white, Hit that midpoint, twist that viewpoint, land that end rhyme dead on time, No borrowed swagger, no costume character, no algorithmic tough-guy mask, Just a baldy bro bending the alphabet backwards — making a bastard of every task. [Chorus – Female Singer Only | Male Ad-Libs Underneath] Mouth full of matches — strike when I speak, Fire in the phrasing — wire in the beat, No gaps in the pattern, no drag in the rhyme, I don’t rap over the rhythm — I redesign time. [Final Verse – Same Solo Male Rapper | Full Acceleration] Accelerate naturally — battery-free, with the breath as the chemistry, Pedal the syllables, settle the tremor, level the measure with verbal geometry, Angle the cadence, dismantle the language, reassemble fragments in tactical sequence, Make every consonant carry percussion, every vowel a vehicle carrying meaning. I can stack little stresses in tessellations, press them together, then stretch the design, Switch from a whisper to piston percussion without ever stepping outside of the line, Rhyme at the front, at the back, in the middle — then mirror the rhythm across it, Hide a second scheme in the first, like a note in a coat with a key in the pocket. This is not speed for the sake of the spectacle — every quick flick has a function, Every tongue-twist turns at a junction, every junction returns to the subject, I can blitz, but the trick is the grip — keep the thought while the syllables scatter, ’Cause anybody can empty a mouthful of noise — I make every mouthful matter. [Final Chorus – Female Singer Only | Stacked Male Ad-Libs] Mouth full of matches — strike when I speak, Fire in the phrasing — wire in the beat, Words keep multiplying — line after line, If the tongue can turn a corner, I’m taking it blind. No gaps in the pattern, no drag in the rhyme, Breath, beat, brain — all arriving on time, Let the last word land, let the whole room react— [Beat Stop – Solo Male Spoken] Don’t hand me a thesaurus. Hand me a match.
