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Lyrics Yeah… Burned CD nights, cracked screen days— Let’s go. Flip phone era, I’m back with the bounce, Bass in the trunk, make the whole block announce. You talk like a king but you move like a clown— I don’t need your crown, I can tear it right down. Flip phone era, no cap, no filter, I’m too damn sharp, you too damn brittle. If you want that smoke, I got lungs for the weather— One verse, one hook, I’m a storm stitched together. I came up on “don’t blink,” drums hit like a door slam, You rap like a group chat—loud, but it’s more spam. My lines got layers like a fit with the tags on, Yours got holes like “wait—what was the track on?” I’m slick with the timing, I’m rude with the grin, I say it with my chest, you say it with a “maybe.” I don’t chase trends, I chase tape-deck memories, Where the snare felt mean and the bass had enemies. You got excuses stacked high like a Jenga tower, I got punchlines on deck like “pick a damn hour.” I can go radio clean, I can go gutter too, Either way, you still losing—what the fuck you gon’ do? I’m the reason your “big moment” turns into a hiccup, You the type to throw shade then ask for a pic, bruh. Flip phone era… (repeat) I want that early-2000 heat—dry snare, clap smack, Hooks that stick like gum on a fresh black cap. I’m a problem with manners, I’m a laugh with a blade, I’ll roast you, then wave like “good game” in your face. Your flow sound rented, mine sound owned, Yours sound scared of silence, mine make silence moan. I’m not “too much,” you just too damn average, I’m a highlight reel, you a “skip intro” habit. If you want a clash, bring bars not a tweet, Bring breath not excuses, bring teeth not retreat. I’m built off hunger, late nights, cheap eats, Now I eat beats for breakfast—tell ’em “bon appétit,” bitch. So play this in the car when the world feels heavy— Let the bass remind you: you’re still here, still ready. Yeah… Flip phone era—ringtone swagger.