You don’t know the nights I bled in the booth,
spit prayers through the wire, veins full of truth.
I rose from the curb where the rats chew hope,
now my words hit nerves like a thug’s last rope.
You don’t know the cost of this crown, the frost on the town,
every cheer got a ghost, every plaque pulls me down.
I’m still haunted by shots that never left the pound,
echoes in my skull, ask 50 how it sounds.