[genre: ballroom-punk fusion] [mood: confrontational, ecstatic, raw] [dynamics: compressed-verses, open-choruses] [instruments: 808-sub, metallic-percussion, distorted-synth, chain-rattle, vocal-chop] [Ember vocal-style: weathered, throaty, brassy, fibrillating-glottal-fry] [style: basement-club, sweat-slicked-concrete] [tempo: 92 BPM] [theme: identity-as-performance] [intro] Lip gloss clicks, fog machine leaks Rhinestones catch what the fluorescent seeps [verse 1] Ember at runway's edge, slicking cowlicks down Acrylics tap-tapping, mug on but the frown Category is realness... what does that mean When your daytime self feels tucked and unseen [pre-chorus] Mother calls out, hands shake from setting spray Ten seconds to serve what you can't explain Walk is your thesis, no debating [chorus] Mother says chop, Father says tens I say fuck your should've-beens The only realness in this room Is what we make when beats go boom [verse 2] House children lined up, each serving unspoken Razor pops a hip in the back row Says "When they ask what you are, be the show" [pre-chorus] Judges whisper, scorecards are waiting Bass drops like a chop you can't appeal This is the moment you learn to be real [chorus] Mother says chop, Father says tens I say fuck your should've-beens The only realness in this house Is what we bleed when beats go boom [bridge] Runway's a pen, your body writes Dip so low you forget your fights House built from sweat, not stone Realest thing you've ever known [post-chorus] Serve it raw, serve it now Realness is what you allow [chorus] Mother says chop, Father says tens I say fuck your should've-beens The only realness we allow Is what we prove when beats go pow [outro] House down, boots down, realness now
