I touch the sky with a middle finger to the ceiling,
dreams so loud, woke the gods, now they dealing.
Lupe float like ghosts in a chrome-brimmed beanie,
Ye storm through the clouds—this that God-feeling.
Gold chains swing like noose knots, we still breathing,
turn scars to bars, every wound got a meaning.
Heaven’s gate cracked, angels asking for the remix,
we just laugh, pass the aux, blow clouds out the speakers.