way it is

*(The beat kicks in—a syncopated rhythm of gunshot snares and warped vocal samples. The lyrics unfold like a street-corner cipher meeting a fever dream.)* **Verse 1 (Hook):** *"They told me war is politics by other means—* *Bullshit. War is corner stores and broken dreams,* *War is homies turning ghosts by Halloween,* *War is praying to a God you don’t believe."* **Verse 2:** *"Sirens sing the anthem where the block resides,* *Cracked sidewalks keep the names of those who died,* *Every stop sign’s a memorial disguised,* *Bullet holes in brickwork—hieroglyphs of pride."* **Verse 3:** *"We ain't got tanks, we got Impalas low,* *Artillery? Nah—just folklore in a 40oz,* *Generals wear durags, not camo,* *Battlefield’s the alley where the streetlights glow."* **Verse 4:** *"Mama’s tears evaporate before they hit the floor,* *Daddy’s doing time for robbing the liquor store,* *Little brother’s got his finger prints on the bullets on the trigger—* *Either write his life or let the glock encore."* **Verse 5:** *"Truce? Nah. Truces turn to Trojan horses,* *Handshakes hide the switchblades, forced divorces,* *Every ‘we cool’ got a subtext of distortions,* *Love letters signed in blood and corpse reports."* **Verse 6:** *"The curriculum? Calculus of alley chess,* *Kings get crowned then dethroned by the precinct’s desk,* *Checkmate’s when the coroner’s latex dress* *Zips up your potential—what a fucking mess."* **Verse 7:** *"The rats in the walls know the score by now,* *They throw parties in the ceilings when the guns go ‘pow,’* *Even roaches got a hustle, watch ‘em now,* *Saluting fallen crumbs like ‘Damn… it’s your turn pow.’"* **Verse 8:** *"The block’s a Ouija board—ask it who’s next,* *It’ll spell out names in shell casings and hex,* *The wind don’t whisper here, it TEC-TEC-TEC’s,* *A language only orphans and the night respects."* **Verse 9 (Bridge):** *"They say ‘stop the violence,’ like it’s some app to close,* *Like trauma ain’t a heirloom passed in baby clothes,* *Like hunger ain’t a birthright every bastard knows,* *Like war ain’t just the soil where the hood arose."* **Verse 10:** *"The coroner’s the only one who clocks out early,* *The rest of us? We’re extras in a blood-stained sequel,* *Directed by the mayor’s half-assed journal,* *Budget cuts for schools but new tanks for the thermal."* **Verse 11:** *"History’s a loop—play it back in VHS,* *Same plot, new cast, same fatal egress,* *The credits scroll in chalk outlines, I confess,* *We ain’t learned shit but the art of eulogies."* **Verse 12:** *"The pigeons here don’t scatter—they take notes,* *They’ve seen more standoffs than a Clint Eastwood quote,* *They roost on power lines like dangling hopes,* *Watching us re-enact our parents’ ghosts."* **Verse 13:** *"The bodega’s got a loyalty program—* *Spend five bucks, get a bullet with your sandwich, fam,* *The register’s a relic from the ‘Nam,* *Still counting change in lives and body scans."* **Verse 14:** *"The church bells double as a shot clock,* *Every hymn’s a diss track masked as gospel pop,* *The preacher’s got a Glock tucked in his robe’s knot,* *Even God’s got trigger discipline—He don’t stop."* **Verse 15:** *"The graveyard’s got a section for the ‘maybe’s,’* *Empty plots for kids still breathing, barely,* *Their laughter’s on layaway—it’s scary,* *How futures get repoed like stolen stereos."* **Verse 16:** *"The streetlights flicker Morse code for the lost,* *Every shadow’s got a warrant for its cost,* *The moon? Just a surveillance camera’s gloss,* *Filming our demise in 4K bloodstained gloss."* **Verse 17:** *"They’ll call this art, but art implies some mercy,* *This ain’t a song—it’s a eulogy in verse, see,* *A funeral march with a trap beat cursed be,* *The rhythm of the last breath leaving quietly."* **Verse 18 (Outro):** *"So when they ask you ‘why the hood don’t heal?’* *Play ‘em this track like a wound left unsealed,* *War ain’t just a word—it’s the weight we wield,* *It’s the air we choke on—it’s the meal we steal."* *(The beat dissolves into static—the sound of a tape being ejected.)*