Be advise, Mumble rapper about to start mumbling.

Up The Road* (Ft. 1600J) (p.Benjicold)

Not everything fast is fire. This one’s for all the speed rappers bragging about numbers instead of rhythm.
This track cuts through the noise and puts groove, swagger, and wordplay back where it belongs.
It's strictly dedicated and direded at GAWNE (Luke Gawne)

Full Lyrics
I don’t rap fast, I rap last — leave the beat deceased,
You sprintin’ on the track, I just jog and still feast.
A hundred miles an hour but nobody hear the word,
I spit slow-motion bombs, every syllable absurd.

He say he the quickest, well quick don’t mean slick,
I’m syrup with the flow — let it drip, let it stick.
Fans want rhythm, not a stopwatch race,
Can’t groove to a blur when the bar got no taste.

You recordin’ outside but the wind never blow,
No cars in the back, no birds in the show.
Claim it’s one take, but the silence say fake,
I been real with the mic since the cradle, no breaks.

Fast food raps, boy your lines too thin,
I’m steak on the plate, knife cuttin’ through skin.
You brag on your speed, but your soul can’t shine,
I’m sippin’ slow punch, makin’ legends with mine.

I’m a Martian in a spaceship, lean in my cup,
Your rhymes like hiccups, they just rush and erupt.
You a stopwatch rapper, all click no groove,
I’m a jazz band sax, let the whole crowd move.

Boy, I nod to my rhythm, I can dance to my sound,
Your verse runnin’ past but the beat fallin’ down.
They don’t rewind your track, they just scroll on by,
I make ‘em hit repeat till the speaker catch fire.

I’m the turtle in the story, but I still get the win,
Slow burn classic, still sharp with the pen.
You the rabbit in a panic, runnin’ nowhere fast,
I’m a Maybach cruisin’, built heavy to last.

Yeah, you quick with the tongue, but your lines ain’t land,
I’m Picasso with the brush, paint a world with my hand.
You upload the illusion, tryna brag on your speed,
But a verse with no soul is just words with no seed.

I let my punchlines breathe, let the crowd inhale,
You spittin’ syllables like confetti in a gale.
We don’t dance to a blur, we don’t nod to a mess,
We need rhythm in the pocket, not a track on stress.

So keep claimin’ you the fastest, braggin’ bout your race,
While the real heads laugh and just turn up the bass.
I don’t need to be quick, I just need to be real,
Slow fire in the booth, every line gon’ kill.

No Lie ( Produced By. Ninethluke )

Cash Bently

Recent comments

tearholiday

Cashaloe

wyamilliano

Ovo

Related tracks