Late model coupe, matte black, no chrome kiss

Dash lit green, twenty tabs in the door pocket, no low miss

I move like a boomer through the cut where the tunnels hum low

Bass hit the floorboards, everybody else moving slow

Late night stamp on my wrist, chain tucked, no flex needed

Street code in my left hand, blueprint in my right, read it

Back alley engine talk, I let the pistons do the preaching

One take, one lane, no brakes when the whole block sleeping

I came up off cold corners, cheap heat and the corner store glare

Now the map folds open when I show up, doors in the air

Hungry with a clean pen, mean with a calm face

Built from spare parts and nerve, now I run through the whole place

Underground in the ductwork where the real ones trade lines

I don't chase a trend, I make a route and then I change signs

Fast car, hard stare, all gas in a tight frame

Same kid, new engine, still tearing up the right name