Lyrics
The Stabila spirit level on the top shelf, past the towels,
smells of WD-40 and the damp plaster dust from old rows.
I only touch it Tuesdays, a ritual I keep it sainted,
tracing the yellow body, where the painted logo's faded.
You left a void so perfect it’s a load-bearing column now,
I hold this up to everything and wonder why and how
the whole damn picture rail is skewed, the system's off its station,
the only honest measure in a crooked situation.
[Chorus]
Check the level, check the lean.
The whole damn gaff is off-kilter, you see.
Got a dead bubble in the centre of me.
Got a dead bubble in the centre of me.
[Verse 2]
Been walking Moss Side pavements, checking every single curb for true,
trying to find a parallel or a perpendicular to you.
This city’s full of new builds held by prayers and just brute force,
a million hairline fractures running off their pre-planned course.
They said "your body's a temple," but the architect was pissed,
left scaffolding on synapses and a blueprint full of mist.
Since August '09, I hear it: "'Mind the bubble, kid. Keep it central.'"
It's been floating to the right ever since the final rental.
[Chorus]
Check the level, check the lean.
The whole damn gaff is off-kilter, you see.
Got a dead bubble in the centre of me.
Got a dead bubble in the centre of me.
[Bridge]
(Beat breaks down to 808 and sparse hi-hats. Main vocal drops out. Layered, rhythmic ad-libs fill the space.)
(Off-true...)
(Yeah...)
(Just a fraction...)
(Check it again...)
(Measure twice...)
(It's no use...)
(Gone...)
(Central...)
[Outro]
Dead bubble...
Just a dead bubble in the centre...
About WREN HAVOC
WREN HAVOC was raised in the redbrick terraces of Moss Side, Manchester, by a scaffolder father and a pharmacist mother. At 17, a chronic illness diagnosis ended a promising athletic career, forcing her to trade the netball court for hospital waiting rooms, where her lyrical style was born. Her uniquely architectural rap was honed during quiet shifts at the John Rylands Library, inspired by the…
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