Yo, Ritmada Do WRC97, turbo spittin’ like a MAC-11,
dirt symphony, clutch kickin’ heaven,
rally blood in my veins, no leaven,
crest jump ghost, shadows fade to revvin’,
explicit piston hymns—no censor, no reverend,
co-driver screaming “flat, don’t lift,” we’re seven-
ty through the fog, ego in the glove, no weapon,
just kick-drum gravel, bassline weapon,
finish-line tape like a sin unconfessed—amen.