Quis in the booth, no halo, just Henny proof,
Brian McKnight with a switchblade smooth—
I ain’t singin’ you back, I’m fuckin’ the track raw,
moans in 808s, panties on the dashboard.
Late-night text: “Come through, leave your virtue at the door,”
I stroke that C-major, make the neighbor press record.
Yeah, I promised her forever in the pre-chorus lie,
then came on her tongue—call that midnight lullaby.