Ayy … who count the gold, who sell the gun ?
Same suit, new sun.
We know the name — C-I-A, huh.

They smile with aid, hide blade in file,
logo clean but the game so vile.
New road, new base, same style,
map redraw while they sip exile.
From Kin to Dakar they move in code,
satellite eyes on the dirt road.
Tell our youth “dream big, go learn,”
then buy the land when the souls return.
Oil smell, data sale, same plan,
you call it peace, we call it scan.
Pockets deep, flag high, they preach trust,
but we see dust under that gloss.

C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
no visa, still they travel farther.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
we build, they wire transfer.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
front page clean, back door darker.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
we see the smile behind the charger.

Contracts sweet like mango talk,
then boom — they own the block.
Drone above, mic in rock,
culture stream, market stock.
They push the beat, we push the drum,
same rhythm, different sum.
My brother code, they trace his thumb,
call it “safety,” we call it “come.”
NGO – spyware blend,
every loan got string at end.
History spin, same trend,
they fund the fire, then pretend.

C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
no visa, still they travel farther.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
we build, they wire transfer.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
front page clean, back door darker.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
we see the smile behind the charger.

They say “partnership,” we say “deal,”
they bring the pen, we bring the field.
Gold in box, story sealed,
truth offline, vibe real.
From Bamako nights to Lagos rain,
every promise come with chain.
Young kings still code their pain,
beat knock loud — that’s campaign.
We remix fear into sound,
new world born underground.
Spy satellite can’t track that pound,
‘cause spirit strong, still homebound.

(Ayy … we see … we know …)
Paper fly, flag wave slow,
agent smile in Ankara show.
They film the vibe, they sell the glow,
Africa rise, they copy flow.
But roots don’t leak, drums don’t lie,
dust still talk when the wire run dry.
We stay loud till the power sigh,
truth don’t sleep, even if they spy.

C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
no visa, still they travel farther.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
we build, they wire transfer.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
front page clean, back door darker.
C.I.A — Cash In Africa,
we see the smile behind the charger.

Satellite blink, network fade,
still the drum loud in the shade.
C.I.A… cash in Africa —
but Africa paid.


C.I.A : Cash In Africa (Afro Trap Rap reload)

Click.
Whisper: zero … three … five nine …
Static tastes like metal,
the night counts itself.

I live between frequencies,
apartment full of antennas and grief.
Each wall hums like a code that forgot its god.
Neighbors sleep; I tune their dreams.
Dial spins—
women reading digits in glass tones,
uno siete dos nueve, heartbeat slows.
Signal jumps, my pulse follows.
There’s poetry hiding in interference,
truth chopped to syllables.

Numbers tower, calling out names,
zero to nine, all sound the same.
Who’s on the line? who’s still sane?
Static love, electric chain.

They say those towers never die,
only change voices.
I caught my own echo last night,
spelling my sins in Morse.
Dit-dit, dah-dit, I translate pain,
feed it to the tape machine, rewind rain.
My pen bleeds code: 13-31, 08-88.
Every rhyme a coordinate,
every bar a latitude.
No chorus of crowds—just circuits that clap back.

Numbers tower, counting the gone,
ghosts on the band keep carrying on.
Turn the dial, lose your name,
static cradle, signal flame.

Night market of signals,
shortwave vendors sell nostalgia by the kilohertz.
A child hums the theme of old war reports,
I sample it, loop the fear till it rhymes.
Somewhere a spy forgot to die,
his code still feeds the sky.
I rap slow, syllables drag like smoke,
the beat cracks, meters broke.
All I own fits in a waveform.
All I am—transmission.

If you hear this, respond with silence.
If silence answers, you’re alive.
Repeat: zero… three… five… nine…
The tower hums—
I hum back.

Numbers tower, counting the gone,
ghosts on the band keep carrying on.
Turn the dial, lose your name,
static cradle, signal flame.
Numbers tower, calling out names,
zero to nine, all sound the same.
I fade in noise, I fade in code,
left-field heart on radio mode.

…– .– .– …
click. silence.

Numbers tower (Left Field Rap reload)

Barrio dormido, yo despierto.
No llores por mí, aprende el movimiento.

Luces bajas, esquina fría, humo pega en la mejilla,
la ciudad respira lento, mi nombre corta la orilla.
Tu recuerdo camina sucio, zapato viejo, paso corto,
cada golpe en mi pecho es saldo que yo cobro.
Calle me crió sin promesas, hierro y ganas, sin sutura,
aprendí a mirar abajo y a subir con la amargura.
No te quiero ver feliz, no quiero verte entero,
tu fantasma me recuerda que te tuve yo primero.

Baila lento, barrio dormido, siente el bajo en el suelo,
corazón de concreto, la luna me reclama el duelo.
Baila lento, no hables, que la noche guarda el ruido,
dolor en silencio, mi bolsillo y mi olvido.

Tus caricias eran trampa, besos con filo escondido,
los guardé como balas, ahora sirven de testigo.
Entre fierro y botella canto con la voz partida,
mi alma es moneda rota que ya no tiene salida.
Tiempo juega sucio, baja el pulso, sube el fierro,
los sueños se venden barato en cada pasillo y cerro.
Rebajada la confianza, la calle me enseñó el precio,
no confío en tus abrazos, los facturo con desprecio.

Noche densa, yo persigo el ritmo de mi latido,
el barrio calla, pero guarda todo lo que he sido.
Baila lento, que el dolor se hace contrato,
te lo firmo en la frente si vuelves a ser mi trato.

Baila lento, barrio dormido, siente el bajo en el suelo,
corazón de concreto, la luna me reclama el duelo.
Baila lento, no hables, que la noche guarda el ruido,
dolor en silencio, mi bolsillo y mi olvido.

Barrio dormido, yo despierto.
No llores por mí, aprende el movimiento.

Baila lento (Latin Trap Rap reload)

For ten days I'm in RELOAD mode, reworking all my creations from the past twenty days and transforming them into a different musical universe
The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

New tracks tagged #Formant-Shifted Adlibs