Lyrics
The loose C-cell from a '94 Maglite rolls and hits the frame.
We all got the drawer where the city's ghosts remember our name.
It's the rust-ring from the Ajax can, the key to the iron gate
that ain't stood since '08. This is how we calibrate.
It ain't a time capsule, it's a structural report.
The warranty for the furnace that we couldn't afford.
Each bent paperclip a rivet in the hull of this belief,
the friction tape holding the spine on our collective grief.
[Chorus]
This ain't no heirloom, this the proof in the dust.
Every busted fuse is the story of us.
Yeah, we saved the receipts, we kept all the parts.
This the catch-all catechism for our cast-iron hearts.
[Verse 2]
The smell of old paper and ozone from a dead triple-A.
We learned to build a future from the scraps of yesterday.
A single Allen wrench for some long-gone particle board desk.
A book of damp matches that'll never pass the test.
My mother's voice a ghost, "Don't you dare throw that away,"
that thimble from the sewing kit she used on Labor Day.
This ain't a hoard, it's an archive of the pressure and the strain,
a handful of dry rot from a window beaten by the rain.
[Bridge]
(Beat breaks down, filtered drums and ad-libs only)
(Ad-lib: Still here.)
(Ad-lib: That's right.)
(Ad-lib: Don't you touch that.)
(Ad-lib: Every piece.)
(Ad-lib: Uh-huh.)
(Ad-lib: We remember.)
[Chorus]
This ain't no heirloom, this the proof in the dust.
Every busted fuse is the story of us.
Yeah, we saved the receipts, we kept all the parts.
This the catch-all catechism for our cast-iron hearts.
[Outro]
Yeah, we kept all the parts.
The cast-iron hearts.
About Cinderblock Monk
Marcus Jones, known as Cinderblock Monk, was raised in the shadow of Detroit's shuttered auto plants. His father, a GM line worker, died when he was 12, leaving behind a stack of Blue Note jazz records that became Marcus's first instrument. Two years ago, his mother passed, leaving him the family home in Delray, where he now writes rhymes on an MPC at the kitchen table. These songs are an…
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FAQ
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