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THE ASTRAL BODIES - Progression

[Verse 1] 

Mayweather slip — clean as fifty and O,
Never took hits but I still made it blow.
Talk that shit but they move too slow,
I been on go since the Raf Simons show.

Kristi Yamaguchi, I glide through ice,
Cold as fuck but the fit look nice.
Chrome Hearts rings with a black-tie vice,
Talk too cheap, I charge that price.

Pulled up clean like a Netflix drop,
New season, same plot — still top.
Whole crew post like it’s TikTok prop,
I don’t do trends, I set what’s hot.

Chrome in the denim, Frank in my soul,
She want vibes — I want control.
Said she love me for my “artistic goals,”
Bitch, you love numbers, not heart or roles.

Mayweather calm when I hear that hate,
Slip through shade like a first-class gate.
Talk about me when they imitate,
Still can’t touch what I orchestrate.

Balenci on feet, no shoelace tied,
Whole fit cost like a crypto ride.
I don’t do humble, I personify pride,
Every “fuck you” sound amplified.

[Hook]

I’m in blow mode, don’t fix that sound,
Kick so loud make the floorboards bounce.
Talk that sweet, get smacked to ground,
No peace, no love — just crown.

Distort that mix, let it bleed too loud,
I don’t need fans, I need that crowd.
Mayweather slip, I dodge that cloud,
Undefeated moves — say it proud.

[Verse 2]

Uber to the party, I don’t need invite,
Drunk off praise and the neon light.
She talk love, I talk streams and rights,
Every DM feel like a highlight.

Burberry coat with a Saint Laurent tone,
Bitch, I’m rude like a cancelled phone.
Tweet too wild for a corporate loan,
Still get paid when I’m left alone.

Netflix in bed with a half-done drink,
Scroll through texts just to laugh and think.
Post that caption, delete that link,
I live in a loop — you blink, I sink.

Naomi Osaka calm on cam,
I don’t clap back — I just damn.
Too composed, too lit, too glam,
Still say “fuck you” with a grin, no spam.

I’m that tweet they quote, that clip they steal,
Still too real for a record deal.
Drip so loud, it come with feel,
I made my pain sound high-end steel.

Bitch, I’m luxury, sin, and grime,
Talk so rude but it’s still in time.
Whole damn world tryna copy my line,
I spit that truth like fine red wine.

[Hook]

I’m in blow mode, don’t fix that sound,
Kick so loud make the floorboards bounce.
Talk that sweet, get smacked to ground,
No peace, no love — just crown.

Distort that mix, let it bleed too loud,
I don’t need fans, I need that crowd.
Mayweather slip, I dodge that cloud,
Undefeated moves — say it proud.

[Verse 3]

Backseat Uber with a broken soul,
Still look good in a mirror roll.
iPhone notes full of half-made goals,
Still make hits off emotional holes.

Bitch I’m art, not algorithm,
Still pop off through cynicism.
Labels call, I don’t play that system,
They want my sound without the wisdom.

Mayweather slip — clean again,
No cuts, no loss, no fake amen.
I move through pain like I move through men,
You swing that shade, I just grin.

Serena serve when I cut that noise,
Talk so smooth make the fake lose poise.
Cash in hand while they play with toys,
Still say “fuck em” in a polite voice.

She play Drake while I count my sins,
Post my name just to bait her friends.
All that love shit always pretends,
I cut that cord when the mood descends.

Steph Curry focus when I aim that shot,
All net feel, no luck, no plot.
Whole club jump when the bass get hot,
Still that one they swear they’re not.

Fake ass lames wanna act profound,
Talk big dreams but they don’t touch ground.
I’m that sound you can’t turn down,
Still talk shit with a billion-dollar frown.

[Bridge]

Slip that hate like a silk-lined coat,
Money talk smooth in a double quote.
All that noise still drown remote,
I been this real since I first took note.

Every shade thrown just adds to worth,
Calm like death, I don’t show hurt.
Mayweather mind — I dodge, divert,
Still talk shit while I sign that merch.

[Outro Hook]

Beat Goez On (feat. Keith Smith)

Buggin Malone

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