Look what you’ve done, mama, I turned these scars into stripes,
took the nights you cried alone, spun ’em into studio lights.
Empty fridge is vintage now, framed in platinum on the wall,
every echo of the landlord’s knock rewrote the hook to my call.
Grandma’s couch in storage, tombstone in a glass display—
I still hear your prayers in the 808, keeping demons at bay.
Told you one day you’d laugh at the rent, now the joke’s in the skyline view;
if heaven got a guest list, your name’s plus-two on the wristband I never take off, true.