Yeah, I got a bud like you,
built in my bedroom, two mics and a dream we glued.
We talk in beats, swap sneakers for symphonies,
laugh at the lows, auto-tune the casualties.
Mom’s on the phone, “Keep it down!”—we crank louder,
drop kick drums off the couch, couch surfing through doubt.
No fake IDs, just DIY VIPs,
three brothers in a loft, poppin’ chords like champagne cheap.
City sleeps, we graffiti the silence,
looping sunrises into viral sirens.