COLD START

[Verse 1]
The MPC-2000XL screen glows a pale green static hum.
Pad 12 is still lit from the last kick drum.
It's Tuesday, quarter to four, the final sequence is done.
I got the master WAV file, guess I finally won.
This whole Pilsen block is dead quiet, listening to the grid.
I built a city in this box, just like my father did.
He built with steel and rivet guns, a blue-collar litany,
I build with 808s and phase, but feel the same futility.

[Chorus]
They call this the victory lap, the final cannon sound.
So why's it feel like I'm the only one left on the proving ground?
They call this a cold start, the engine turning over new,
but the silence after the beat stops has got the last word, not you.

[Verse 2]
The cardboard box was damp, smelled of Lake Michigan and snow.
He set it on the kitchen table, it was Christmas '08, you know.
The severance check was cashed, the U.S. Steel days were dead.
"Don't let the dust settle on this thing," was all my father said.
Fingerprint grease on the rubber pads, a system disk corrupted.
The weight of it was biblical, my whole future interrupted.
I learned to chop a freight train horn into a three-note melody,
a concrete fracture in the beat, a structural remedy.

[Chorus]
They call this the victory lap, the final cannon sound.
So why's it feel like I'm the only one left on the proving ground?
They call this a cold start, the engine turning over new,
but the silence after the beat stops has got the last word, not you.

[Bridge]
So this is the prayer's end? The blueprint folded, filed away?
I poured the bedrock for this sound and now there's nothing left to say.

[Outro]
The MPC-2000XL screen glows. Just a pale green static hum.
Pad 12 is dark. The last kick is done.