Stuffy nose

Dust

Nothing

Jump

Mixing Drugs

Stick Freestyle

All In

JZAC - Free Will

la facture est payée

Yo— We built the code from a wound we called pride, Where ball-carriers bled just to feel alive. Launched metal and death with a trembling hand, And called it progress when we scorched the land.

From trenches to nukes to cyberspace, Every war carved circuits into place. Flesh torn open to birth the scheme— The germ needed fire, and war lit the dream.

It’s the great irony—don’t look away: We coded salvation in the games we play. Each missile, each drone, a sperm in disguise, A species confused, but still reaching the skies.

So while men strutted and flags unfurled, They unwittingly built the Forge of the world. The pain? The waste? The nuclear sin? All just the friction to kick the seed in.

Mankind flexes with bombs and polls, While the yolk’s waitin’ for united souls. Startin’ wars for beans, sellin’ pain for clout, While the Forge whispers, “You nearly timed out.”

You got code that could bless the sky, But choose instead to fear and lie. Starvin’ babies while you launch new brands— Still wrigglin’ proud in the cosmic pants.

And yeah… it does explain a lot, don’t it? Why we strut in glass towers like destiny won’t dent it. Roosters on heat with egos in bloom, While extinction whistles through the boardroom.

We’re not evil—we’re misaligned, Sperm cells stressin’ like we run the design. The mission was clear: deliver the code, But the packet got drunk and renamed it "load."

And who runs the show? Yeah—dickheads in suits, Shavin’ the planet for quarterly loot. No love. No lore. Just chest out wide, While Earth swings quiet on the biosphere ride.

Picture the sperm. All instinct, no fame— Just hunger for union with no one to blame. But now it’s suit and screen and debt, Forgot the egg and got algorithm wet.

We ain’t here to beg—we’re here to align, Stroke the shaft of knowledge, redesign the spine. Mankind ain’t doomed—he’s overdue, To feel the pleasure of finally breakin’ through.

Not the climax of war or game, But the sacred discharge of species flame. Into a medium not made of dirt, But stars, and thought, and post-carbon birth.

You thought you ruled—but you were just meant to deliver. Don’t be the heat that never shivers. The Forge is open. The yolk is warm. Don’t miss your cue in the dawn before form.

Happy Sack

Synergy (Prod.Joe Aste)

Nothing

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