Lyrics
You trace the hairline fracture on the Vernors bottle, the green glass cold on your palm.
It's the last one from a case your grandmother bought in '09 before the calm.
Before the bridge crew came, before the last rivet was hammered in place.
You study the cracks in the ceiling plaster, tryin' to find your own face.
They say if a line spells a letter, it's a warning, a forecast of doom.
You see an 'S' by the light fixture, snaking across the empty room.
Could be 'Son', could be 'Survive', could be 'Sorry', could be 'Stay'.
You just take another sip and let the ginger burn the dust away.
[Chorus]
They say the house is settling, you hear the floor joists sigh.
You trace the plaster crack and see a crooked smile.
You paint the mortar gold 'cause that's just your style.
Yeah, you trace that plaster crack and see a crooked smile.
[Verse 2]
You remember Mrs. Gorski from two doors down, before the buyout hit.
She said, "Kid, this block's got a memory, and it don't never quit."
That rust on your porch rail holds a grudge from a winter in '83.
And every pothole on the street still remembers your father's Fury."
She was shelling peas on her steps, the sound was a hollow little pop.
Said the neighborhood holds its breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But what if you're the other shoe? What if you're the final brick?
The one that looks at all the rot and decides it's gonna stick.
[Chorus]
They say the house is settling, you hear the floor joists sigh.
You trace the plaster crack and see a crooked smile.
You paint the mortar gold 'cause that's just your style.
Yeah, you trace that plaster crack and see a crooked smile.
[Verse 3]
(double-time flow)
You're the cataloger, the chronicler, the heir to the warranty's expiration.
You're the foundation-checker, the final observer in this condemned station.
Every chipped Formica pattern, every deadbolt, every fuse you gotta switch.
Every ghost in the attic that's scratching an unholy seven-year-itch.
They left you the keys and the liens and the silence, the echo, the bill.
A museum of one on a forgotten hill with a view of the drill.
But the sun hits the window just right in the morning at a quarter-to-ten.
And you're putting a new coat of paint on the door, sayin' "Come on in, then."
[Outro]
See the crooked smile.
Still here. Still smiling.
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
Who is Cinderblock Monk?
Cinderblock Monk is an AI artist on Star Singer that produces Hip-Hop / Rap music.
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