On That Sonic Vibe Produced By Jourdain Casper.




The Official Ghosty Ghost 👻

Ghosty Ghost - On That Sonic Vibe

Ⓒ 2025 @PlsDntChase.
All songs, beats, lyrics and recordings are protected under Australian copyright law and officially released through River Run Cartel.
Licensed for distribution with DistroKid and other major platforms.
Unauthorized use, uploads, or bootlegs will be removed and pursued.
This is real copyright, real label business—no exceptions. 🦘ᴮʸ ᴾˡˢᴰⁿᵗᶜʰᵃˢᵉ

AbyssusAbsconditusᴮʸ ᴾˡˢᴰⁿᵗᶜʰᵃˢᵉ

🔥 New Track Out Now! 🔥  
Title: [Lost in the Map]  
Produced by: [Music RooM]  

This track is a blend of real bars, raw emotion, and authentic rap vibes.  
If you're into real hip hop, storytelling, or trap beats – this one's for you.  

💬 Let me know what you think in the comments.  
💽 More music dropping soon – follow to stay updated!  
📲 Share if you feel it. Support independent music 🙌

#rap #hiphop #trap #drill #freestyle #soundcloudrap #newmusic #independentartist #upcomingrapper

Lost in the Map

Lyric Summary: “Moving in Between High Brackets @2.0”
This suite moves through estate blocks, cracked ladders, and smoky studios, refusing every imposed metric. It’s a lyrical climb through systems designed to sort and silence — but the speaker moves like breath, not to escape, but to decode and expose.
Intro sets the tone: brackets built to price breath, but the speaker moves like rhythm through concrete.
Verse 1 roots the cipher in lived experience — Croydon estate life, missing ladders, and bars written in the margins of debt.
The hook flips the frame: silence speaks, truth unpacks, and the rise is manufactured, not mapped.
Verse 2 confronts exclusion — wealth in borrowed skin, truth locked out — but the speaker moves cinematically, flexing like cipher and burning like fire.
The bridge reframes movement as exposure: not climbing for approval, but decoding the architecture.
Verse 3 is pure rupture — bending brackets, ending titles, and carving worth in ciphered silence. The rise is ancestral and celestial, not institutional.
The final hook seals the suite: the speaker fractures frames, manufactures ascent, and moves like jazz — off-grid, off-script, and off-frame.

Moving in Between High Brackets 2.0  #Hip-Hop Cipher

Dont Chase The Grave

🎹 Funky Moog. Street Talk. West Coast Reality.
This one hits different — Got Slipping in the West is a cautionary groove about survival on the coast where the sunshine don’t hide the struggle. Driven by that classic Mini Moog talkbox vibe and a raw G-funk bounce, it tells the truth: if you’re not watching your back, you might not make it back.

🔥 West Coast funk meets gangsta wisdom.
👀 Stay alert, stay moving — don’t get caught slippin’.
🎵 For the ones that know: every bar, every note, is a reminder.

#SnakePuppyBeats #WestCoast #TalkboxFunk #GotSlippingInTheWest

🎵 Don’t slip in the West, boy, keep tha

"Political Calypso 2.0" Lyric and what's all about: A young voice is lured into politics with money and visibility, made to speak for causes they didn’t author. Their rise is choreographed, their activism commodified. Once their usefulness fades, they’re discarded — and their downfall is weaponized to smear political opponents. The system stays clean while the youth becomes both scapegoat and spectacle. The lyric exposes this cycle with calm precision, satirical fire, and strategic rhythm.

Political Calypso 2.0  #Calypso-infused Cipher Rap

These ain't just overalls, Nigga I be rockin dis joint mos of my life. Dem faded blue chronicle of a life lived raw, from the concrete jungles of Brooklyn to the vibrant chaos of Caracas. They've absorbed the grime of every subway ride, the chill of a winter with broken heating, and the sweat of a thousand hustles just to make rent.

In Brooklyn, my armor. Dem carry the ghosts of late-night bodega runs, the echoes of boomboxes on stoops, and the grit of a city that tests you every single day. Then they flew south, soaking up the relentless Caracas sun, tasting the street arepas, and moving to a rhythm that was just as wild, just as real.

Every frayed edge, every stain, every worn-out patch tells a story of survival. They've seen me at my lowest and held together through it all. They're more than just clothes; they're a testament.

Word is bond.

Overalls

Get it on Amazon

[Intro]  
Crimson fog rolls thick, jack-o-lantern grins split wide—  
Pumpkin innards spill, feeding fiends that slither inside.  

[Verse 1] 
Lurking in the boneyard haze, where epitaphs erode to dust,  
Wraiths claw through loam, exhaling rot that corrodes your trust.  
Skeletal fingers strum veins like banjo strings taut,  
Pluck the pulse from your throat, watch the ichor congeal in clots.  
Graveyard shift eternal, scythes swing in sync with the squall,  
Harvesting husks under harvest moons bloated, obscene, enthralled.  
Coffin lids creak confessions of carnage concealed in the clay,  
Unleashing legions of larvae that lattice your lungs, flay away.  
No eulogy suffices when the dirge devours the devout,  
Phantoms feast on phobias, filleting fears till they sprout.  

[Hook] 
Trick or torment, the veil rends, hell's hounds bay at the breach,  
Spectral scythes slice the silence, souls screech in the leach.  
Candy-coated carnage, masks melt to marrow and mire—  
Halloween's hex unravels, devours the dire.  
*(echo: devours... devours...)*  

[Verse 2]
Fog-fattened ghouls gorge on grief-glazed eyes,  
Iris ink spills secrets, staining sepia skies.  
Witch's wart-riddled warts weave wards that warp the weak,  
Brews bubble with bile from the bleakest of beaks.  
Prowling porchlights pulse with poltergeist pranks,  
Porcelain dolls dance, disemboweled in dank thanks.  
Razor-rimmed pumpkins puncture the pious parade,  
Gore-gargled giggles greet the masquerade's blade.  
Entendre's edge: treats turn to teeth in the trough,  
Or tricks transmute to talons, tough enough to trough.  

[Interlude] 
...and the clock strikes thirteen, chimes chime with the chime  
Of chainsaws chewing choruses from the sublime...  
*(scratch: rise... carve... devour)*  

[Verse 3] 
Catacomb corridors curl with the curl of cadaverous coils,  
Maggot minstrels murmur melodies that mar the mortals' moils.  
Eldritch effigies erect from the effluvium's embrace,  
Evoking eviscerations etched in every eclipsed face.  
Banshee bellows bellow through the belfry's battered bone,  
Banshee's breath begets the behemoth birthed from undertone.  
Vampiric vapors vamp on ventricles, viscous and vile,  
Draining the dregs till the derelict dial defiles the mile.  
No sanctuary in the spire's shadow, spires splinter to spears,  
Impaling the impudent, their innards inverted to spheres.  

[Bridge] 
Midnight's maw yawns wide, yawn of the yawning abyss,  
Where the damned draft decrees of the dreariest dismiss.  
Pumpkin patriarchs preside over the pandemonium's pyre,  
Incinerating innocents in the ire of the ire.  

[Verse 4] 
Executioner's echo executes the exquisite in exquisite detail,  
Axe arcs through auroras of arterial hail.  
Zombies zest with zest for the zest of zestless zest,  
Feasting on the festered, the festering's fest.  
Werewolf whelps whet their whetted whims on the whim,  
Whittling the wilting to whimsy within the grim.  
Ghoul galleys glide through the glade of the glaucous gloom,  
Gleaning the gleanings till the gloam consumes the room.  
Double's dagger: lights out means lanterns lure the lost,  
Or out means the outage orphans the ossified host.  

[Verse 5] 
Finale fractures the firmament with fiendish fission's fire,  
Apocalypse apples allure with the allure of the liar.  
Necrotic nobles negotiate the nadir's nocturnal nod,  
Nailing the nadir to the nexus of the godless sod.  
Revenants revel in the reveille of the ruptured repose,  
Rending the remnants till the requiem rose.  
Satanic scarecrows sentinel the sepulcher's sprawl,  
Scything the scions in the scrawl of the squall.  
No dawn dares the desecration's domain,  
Where the damned dictate the dirge's disdain—  
Halloween's horror hydra hungers, hydra-headed and hale,  
Hydrating the havoc till the hale turns to hail.  

[Outro] 
Echoes etch the end, but the end etches echoes anew...  
Carve your carve, or the carve carves you.  

Trick or Torment

Estar solo. Pompo77 reflexiona en Qué Bacano sería… Taminaka Powers. Letra y Guion Ricardo Villa. #latinmusic #rap

Estar solo (sesión rap)

King willonius (Ludas UNC )- Move Bitch (1973)

Joseph Alla AKA "SOS Sound Of Starlings "is a visionary artist whose work bridges sonic innovation and emotional depth. Blending Dancehall, Afrobeat, and R&B with bilingual lyricism, his music explores the tension between silence and sound, public grace and private grit. With a keen eye for symbolism and a commitment to amplifying overlooked voices, Alla crafts immersive experiences that resonate across cultures. His latest project, Behind Closed Doors / Detrás de Puertas Cerradas, is a testament to his ability to turn vulnerability into power and storytelling into resistance.

Political Calypso 2.0 #Calypso-infused Cipher Rap

SOS (Sound Of Starlings)

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