[Intro]
Yeah—uh, yeah
(Beaches in my mind) [vocal chop]
Low synth stab — hit on the hook
[Verse 1]
Beaches in my head, a clump of salt and sound,
City wind on my face, neon puddles on the ground.
Heart goes thump, thump — subway rhythm through my chest,
Why does my voice sound like this? I test, I claim, I rest.
I have my own voice, scratch on the vinyl of the night,
Amp humming under streetlamps, headlines in low light.
“Toxic lyrical,” they whisper — I flip it into truth,
Hey, Bukadoba, name born from the alley of my youth.
[Pre-Chorus]
Call it a shadow, call it a name I hold up to the flame,
(Bridge of chops) — the crowd repeats, I fold fear into my aim.
Salt on my lips, amp hum beneath my skin,
Tonight I carve my echo — let the chorus begin.
[Chorus]
Echoes of Bukadoba, my flame (Ayy!) [low synth stab]
Echoes of Bukadoba, my flame (yeah!) [vocal chop]
Short, sharp, repeat — my voice in the frame [call: “Bukadoba!” / resp: “Say it!”]
Echoes of Bukadoba, my flame — I claim. [ad‑lib: “I claim!”]
[Verse 2]
Streetlight syllables, footprints print the beat,
Late-night cigarettes, late-night beats, studio heat.
I spit a toothache truth, polished on cracked concrete,
Broken mics, better lines — pressure makes the diamonds meet.
This area’s a clump, I swear, but I plant gardens in the ash,
Turn static into symphonies, make the silence crash.
I used to ask why my voice bent like a question mark,
Now every breath stakes territory, every chorus lights a spark.
[Pre-Chorus — Short]
Bukadoba — not a ghost, a promise pressed in grime,
(Chop) Vocal tag, low synth stab, we loop the line.
[Chorus]
Echoes of Bukadoba, my flame (Ayy!) [low synth stab]
Echoes of Bukadoba, my flame (yeah!) [vocal chop]
Repeat it, chant it — we make the dark explain
Echoes of Bukadoba, my flame — I claim. [ad‑lib]
[Rap Verse — 16 bars]
(1) Late nights on painted curbs, headphones loud like prayers,
(2) Studio lights flicker — sweat, coffee stains, blank stares.
(3) I wrote a map in the margins of receipts and train fares,
(4) Turned alley echoes into verses, strapped truth to my airs.
(5) Bukadoba — that’s my mirror talk, my skinny-jeans revolt,
(6) Not just a tag, it’s my backbone, my vault, my asphalt bolt.
(7) I’ve hustled with a toothbrush mic in a motel room glow,
(8) Sang to cracked ceilings, watched my small city grow.
(9) Punchlines like subway knocks, tight internal rhyme, no slack,
(10) My verses flip the script — struggle then the comeback.
(11) Neon on pavement, salt on lips, amp humming heavy bass,
(12) I sharpened every syllable, turned silence into space.
(13) From backyard freestyles to the chorus on the main stage,
(14) From prayerful late-night lines to ink on a new page.
(15) They said, "You’ll never make it," so I made proof out of the fight,
(16) Now lights bend to my rhythm — Bukadoba owns the night.
[Bridge]
This is the vow: if I fall, I fall loud and I rise louder,
If doubt knocks, I answer with a shout turned into a tower.
Bukadoba — my alter, alley
