GBP in my palm, still I’m clutchin’ it tight,
blue notes crumpled like the pain that I write.
She said “Cee, you changed,” I said “money don’t lie,”
now I’m countin’ up blessings while the demons still hide.
Trap line jump like the sparks on the rail,
mum’s face lit when I sent her that mail—
screenshot, cleared, no debt on the scale,
still I’m haunted by the scent of a stale jail cell.
Fuck fame, I want freedom, that’s the real detail.