Neon saints bleed in my rearview, chrome rosary click-clack—praise the loot.

Bassline baptizes the block, kick drum kicks like a SWAT boot.

Silk durag halo, I’m the ghost that the corner confesses to.

White chalk constellations, every star a testament I drew.

Saint Laurent shroud, .45 crown, preach through the muzzle flash—hallelujah, pew-pew.

Moonlight on the scale, turn a brick to a cathedral pew.

If heaven got a ghetto, I’m the choir that never made it through.

I’m ridin’ dirty through the midnight rain,

neon demons in my rear-view flame.

Got a .45 singin’ ‘long with the bass,

chrome teeth grin in a criminal lace.

Momma said pray, but the streets said bounce,

turned every closed door to a 40-ounce.

I’m a ghost in the hood with a ultraviolet soul,

painting penthouse dreams on a concrete scroll.

Bop-bop, watch the block erupt—

Gangsta bop till the sun comes up.