This Ain’t for the Main Stream

[HOOK]
This ain’t for the main stream… Nah
This for the Reel Feed—Yahh
This for the work boots, lunch box, steel beams
For the folk clockin’ in just to chase them real dreams

This ain’t for the spotlight... Pass that
This for the porch light—Backtrack
Where the struggle got rhythm and the grind got soul
And the beat still knock like a punch on parole

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[Verse 1: 1–8]
601 born where the river don’t quit
Same water that flood, same mud where I sit
Gold dreams in a chrome-plated whip
If the music don’t sell, then the hustle gon’ flip
Papa said ‘Boy, don’t you chase ‘em, attract,’
Now the beats line up like a train on a track
I don’t write ‘em, I breathe ‘em—the flow automatic
They ask how I move? Tell ‘em ‘Southern Mathematics.’

[Verse 1: 9–16]
Checks over fame, I’m too paid for the drama
Pull up to the bank in my mama’s old Toyota
Real recognize real like a preacher knows gospel
If you fakin’ for clout, then the door’s to your right
I’m too deep in the game for the Instagram caption
My life is a loop of recording and passion
They ask why I smile? ‘Cause the music don’t lie
And the 601 built me to outlive every plaque

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[Verse 2: 17–24]
I’m the ghost in the studio after they lock it
The echo that linger when doubters stop knockin’
I’m the field where the talent get planted and picked
While the industry vultures still circlin’ the bricks
They don’t make ‘em like me no more, I’m a relic
A bluesman with 808s in my credit
The South got somethin’ to say—turn the mic up
And if you ain’t from here, just listen and respect it

[Verse 2: 25–32]
This for Clarksdale crossroads, for Jackson ambition
For every back road that hide a musician
This for the dreamers who sleep in they Whips
For the moms who hum hooks while she workin’ her shift
I’m the voice of the voiceless, the beat of the pavement
The hope in the static, the grind incarnate
So when I say ‘Muddy South,’ it’s a vow, it’s a chant
It’s the sound of the gods where the sinners get saved