Tempo: 92 BPM — head-nod, pistool op tafel Beat map (short): kick on 1 and the & of 2; thick sub-bass hit every bar; syncopated funk guitar on 2 & 4; playful detuned synth stabs mocking the vocal; sparse 16th hi-hat groove; occasional halftime pocket for the second chorus; clap on 2 & 4; roomy snare with tape slap on 3. Production notes to engineer: dikke bassline = sub synth + slap mid-bass; funky synths with detuned LFO laughter; reverbed vocal doubles on hook; sparse hats to preserve head-nod; slap delay on lead vocal ad-libs; re-amped street ambience (bus stop hiss, subway screech) under the bridge; leave space for call-and-response ad-libs. [Intro ] Corner light flicks — graffiti tag says ‘wake’ Pawnshop clock ticks, bus stop coughs and shakes I lean, I watch, I count the neon debt — 92 on the meter, rhythm in my sweat. [Verse 1] Dirty hands, truth in my palm, velvet lies in a scene, Bus stop breath steaming, pawnshop sign reads ‘maybe been’. Sub bass humming like a preacher in a trench coat, Street philosopher, spit truth through a throat of smoke. Graffiti name on the brick — my witness, my claim, Corner light halo, half-lit faces, half the same. Screens buzz like insects, pray to glass and gold, Leaders on their strings, smiles bought and sold. [Pre-Chorus ] Screens lit like altars, worship in a flicker, Digital sermons, thumbs tap quick and sicker. I count the marionettes, their strings glow thin, I nod low, see the rot, hear the city grin. [Chorus ] Silicon sinners run the city grid, Golden lies in a digital crib, Screens glow bright while the morals slip, Whole damn world on a microchip. (Ad-lib double: "Silicon sinners — who’s really winnin'?") [Verse 2] Funky synths laugh at your struggle, bass like a threat, Subway screech, pawnshop clock, a corner light unset. Motor oil slick shoes, feet keep steady on the grind, I count the likes like bullets, every follow a signed crime. They sell salvation in an app, a curated sin, Auto-play the grief, while the sirens spin. Mechanical angels in chrome suits flossin’ greed, Pixels crown a throne, forget the hungry need. [Pre-Chorus 2 — stripped] Half the chorus, half the beat, step back, breathe close, Let the bass tell the truth while the synths almost boast. People move like shadows, heads bowed to the glow, I keep my eyes clear — I watch the puppet show. [Chorus — Half-Time / Call & Response] Silicon sinners run the city grid (who’s winnin’?) Golden lies in a digital crib (who’s winnin’?) Screens glow bright while the morals slip (who’s winnin’?) Whole damn world on a microchip — Call: "Silicon sinners" — Response: "who's really winnin'?!" (Half-time pocket lets the bass breathe — add reverbed doubles.) [Bridge ] Fingers twitch on keys — destinies rewritten in code, Algorithms pick lovers, pick leaders, pick the load. I step out from tinted glass with grease on my palms, I unplug the altar, burn the feed with fingerprints and psalms. Concrete beneath my boots, I light a sabbath flame, Not