Who’s ready for tomorrow?
I’m lacing up my busted Cortez,
spray-paint sunrise on the estate bins,
city foxes hum the bassline,
sirens sync to my heartbeat.
No cash, no plan, no sleep—
just a bootleg dream in a backpack,
neon ghosts on the bus-window,
laughing like we already won.
We’ll outrun the rent man, outshine the adverts,
strike sparks off the curb tonight—
’cause tomorrow’s a rumor we started ourselves.