FROM BLACK TO BLACK

First one brought the bass — no strap, just slaps
Second one lit a synth and never looked back
Third one's got two snares in his back pocket
Fourth? She don't talk — she *samples*
Fifth reads scriptures from a wah pedal
And the sixth…?
The sixth is me.
I don't play. I *conduct chaos*.

---

Six back.
No brakes.
One beat.
Twelve snakes.
Six back.
Too loud.
We don't rehearse.
We rebirth.

---

We don't walk — we rumble
We don't knock — we plug in
Ain't no welcome mat for what we bring
This funk ain't fashion
It's **confrontation therapy**

---

*"DROP IT!"*
Six pairs of boots, six solos at once
Six reasons why your band can't play here

---

We jam till the pavement forgets it's concrete
We loop gunshots through chorus FX
We turn police lights into strobes
And we leave through the kitchen door
Because main entrances
Ain't ever been for the funky

---

Six back
Six loud
Six never left
We just unplugged for a while
"Still funky… still guilty… still groovin'."

"Lemme tell you somethin', bitch... I know what's goin' on."

You out with "friends"?
Pfft. I saw your texts —
You think I don't know a motherfucker named Bob?
Bob don't play guitar.
Bob don't wear purple.
Bob don't funk.
But Bob got your number.
And now I got his.
But I ain't gonna drop the bass —
I'm gonna drop the truth.

You ever wake up in a cold sweat,
Dreamin' of Bob wearin' my jacket?
That bitch had the audacity
To put my funk records in the trunk —
Next to his yoga mat?
Now I'm sittin' here with a plate of cold fries,
Talkin' to a mirror like it's my therapist.
They say I'm crazy...
But the mirror nods.
And I trust the funk more than your lies.

Ain't that a bitch
Bob ... george motherfucker for ever
George motherfucker 4 ever

You pressin' button 6...
But I'm stuck on 9
And baby... this elevator got no emergency brake.

---

She walked in smellin' like cherry and decisions
Leather dress tight like unpaid rent
Said her room had bad lighting
So she needed somethin'...
Manual. And rechargeable.

---

Velvet walls and slippery floors
She moaned: "I don't do stairs no more."
We ridin' slow, hands on chrome
That ain't the only thing risin' in this zone

"You ever love someone so bad…
You start talkin' to mirrors and carryin' pump-action justice in the trunk?"

---

I parked outside the room — 409.
I saw Bob's shoes by the door.
Snake-skin. Classy. That motherfunker got taste.
I loaded up the funk... click.
She said she loved soul — guess Bob had more groove in his jeans.

---

I ain't no killer.
But that beetch turned me into a jazz funeral.
Heartbeat like slap bass.
Finger on the trigger, sweatin' funk from every pore.
Then — blue lights. Sirens.
My soundtrack scratchin' to a halt.

---

Was it real?
Or just the last track of a warped record?
Voices in stereo, sayin' "DOWN ON THE FLOOR!"
I laughed.
Told 'em I just came to deliver the bass.

---

They say I'm unstable…
But they playin' disco in the damn hallway.
That ain't therapy, that's torture.
I asked the guard if he knew Bob.
He said, *"Bob who?"*
Exactly, beetch. Exactly.

Now every night, I hear a cowbell in my sleep.
And a voice sayin' — *"You lost the groove, baby."*
But I didn't lose it.
It was stolen.
Stolen by a polyester-wearin' motherfunker
With a cologne that smells like betrayal and jazz brunch.

---

Now I'm sittin' in cell 808.
Talkin' to my bunkmate about beetches and betrayal.
They took my boots, but they can't take my funk.
Bob still breathin'.
But I got a mixtape for his funeral.
*(Echoing loop: "Bob… Bitch… Funk never dies…")*

[Morceau instrumental]

Une pause musicale au cœur de l'album qui permet de respirer après l'intensité de la première partie de la trilogie Nasty Bob.

Yeah…
He got 100K followers and not a single groove.
That's talent, right? Right?
Got a gold mic, neon shoes
Talks big game, can't find the 2s
Wears funk like a costume, synthetic soul
Tryna groove with no cholesterol
Said he freestyled that whole verse — I heard it.
He shoulda paid for silence first.

All style, no funk
Big flex, flat junk
Talkin' fast, fallin' flat
Ain't no groove in that cap
All style, no funk
That drip? Just sweat
We keep the groove — They keep regret.

He's got four producers, ten plugins
Still can't find the downbeat
Calls it "lo-fi soul"?
That's a polite lie.
His bassline's got stage fright
And his drummer's a metronome on drugs.
"Yo, run it back!"
Nah, run it off the stage.
That ain't a beat —
That's a broken fax machine.

All style, no funk
Big flex, flat junk
We don't hate — we testify
Groove's a passport, and you ain't fly
All style, no funk
That drip? Just sweat
We keep the groove — They keep regret.

So next time you talk loud…
Check your pocket.
Funk don't make noise — it makes truth.
Dead. On. It.

We don't need candles — your skin's already fire
Every breath between us is a sacred choir
I trace your name with silence on your spine
And in that hush… your heart reads mine
When the world fades into hush
When the rules dissolve to dust
There's no shame in what we do
In this quiet touch — I'm only you

---

Your hand, a prayer I want to hold forever
Your voice, a temple where I lose my tether
You open slowly like a sky at dawn
And every sigh you give — I'm gone
When the world fades into hush
When the rules dissolve to dust
There's no shame in what we do
In this quiet touch — I'm only you

No fear here
No need to ask
Just close your eyes
And take off the mask
When we move like light through rain
No more borders, no more names

It's not lust — it's not above
It's what we are… when we're in love

"Mister, you can't bring a laser harp in this club."
Too late, baby.
I already plugged it in the DJ's neck.

---

She walk like a hologram in heat
Gold chain, six-inch acrylics, smellin' like regret and peach
She said "You into jazz?"
I said "Only if it's naked."
She pulled a kazoo out her bra
I lost my religion in that moment.

---

Hyperdelicsexadelikfunk
Drippin' from my ears like melted junk
We don't dance — we levitate
This groove got no expiration date

---

Bartender served me static on ice
A squirrel in heels winked at me twice
Bass so thick I filed taxes on it
Guitar screamin' like it caught the Holy Ghost
Meanwhile she…
She blowin' smoke into my third eye
Sayin' "Let's skip dessert and eat theory."
I wrote this beat with lipstick
On a bathroom mirror
In a dream
While upside down.

Hyperdelicsexadelikfunk
We groove in tongues and drink the sun
Don't need drugs — just that bass
Got kicked outta church for makin' this

[Titre instrumental de 6:21 - Exploration cosmique du funk]

Une odyssée musicale qui emmène l'auditeur dans un voyage intersidéral, mêlant synthétiseurs cosmiques et rythmes funk hypnotiques.

*"They gave me ten years… but I found somethin' better than talks…"*
*"His name was Prince… and his Black Album…"*

---

I started pluckin' that bass like my life depended on it.
Slap like Larry G, synth like Dez gone cybernetic.
No more brass — just fat purple leads.
No more tears — just LinnDrum dreams.
I ain't the man I was...
I'm a funk android, reborn in a jailhouse echo chamber.

---

Release day. Fresh boots. Paisley socks.
I hop in the first cab —
"Take me to heartbreak, driver."
He don't ask questions, just turns up the funk.
I got a demo in my pocket,
And revenge on 7-inch vinyl in my soul.

---

I see her —
She's rockin' a busted hoodie,
Three gremlins screamin',
Cigarette hangin' like a broken promise.
Traces of somethin' white on her shoulder —
Not snow, baby…
Just residue from the wreckage of bad decisions.

Bob?
Gone.
Ran off with a yoga instructor and a crypto wallet.
Left his funk babies behind like old promo cassettes.

I didn't cry.
I just dropped my demo on the porch.
Track one: *"You Lost the Groove (But I Found Myself)."*
Track two: *"Funk Ain't Free, Bitch."*
Track three?
That's between me and Prince.

He asked: "Is this a nightclub or a confession booth?"
I said:
"Baby... it's both."

---

She lickin' lollipops like revenge
Fishnets louder than her ex's Benz
Lipstick like a signature on sin
Told me "Come inside" —
I was already there, mentally undressed and full of basslines

---

Hardwired in a velvet trap
My groove got caught between thighs and clap
We don't dance — we contort
Ain't no funk without a lil' sport

---

I saw a man sellin' hot sauce in a halo
He winked, said "That's her uncle — she's part tornado."
Room spins like a vinyl stuck on "yes"
Every moan's a sermon, every beat's a mess
But it's the kinda chaos that undresses stress

---

*"You funky... you funky... don't lie…"*
I ain't hard to read —
I'm hardwired
Straight to your guiltiest playlist

---

Hardwired in a velvet trap
Came in cool, left with a spinal snap
No rules. Just heat.
That's the Prince-approved heartbeat.
I'm hardwired
Hardwired in a velvet trap
Came in cool, left with a spinal snap
No rules. Just heat.
That's the Prince-approved heartbeat.