Concrete Playground

[Intro] [Verse 1] Mom says grow up, I just laugh, Flunked that class, I’ll skate the path. Broken decks and busted shoes, Middle finger — nothing to lose. Crashed my bike, I’ll take the blame, Teachers curse me, same old game. Life’s detention, that’s my role, Punk rock’s written on my soul. [Rap Verse 1] Yo, I’m concrete raised, never phased, razorblade tongue, Teachers preaching life lessons but I’m still young. They talk grades, talk money, talk jobs in the fall, But I’m sprayin’ bars raw, like graffiti on the wall. Life’s a test with no answers, I circle ‘none above,’ Got more scars than diplomas, but I call that love. I’m the echo of the streets, the kid you couldn’t tame, In a world full of clones, I don’t play that game. So keep your rules, your laws, and your textbooks, man — I’m a rebel with a rhyme, middle finger in my hand. [Chorus] Skate or break — we don’t care! Middle fingers in the air. Teachers hate us, cops all stare, Punk’s not d**d — it’s everywhere! [Verse 2] Spray-paint dreams on city walls, C***h this gig in basements small. Sarcasm’s ink in every line, We don’t conform, we won’t resign. Drums too loud, guitars off key, That’s the sound of being free. If life’s a stage, we’ll burn it down, Crown the losers, take the crown. [Rap Verse 2] I’m the outcast shadow, a back-alley poet, Spit truth like gasoline, light it up and you know it. They label me delinquent, misfit, born to fail, But every verse I drop’s a Molotov in detail. Society’s a cage, I ain’t playin’ that role, Got an army of rejects with rebellion in their soul. Skate wheels spin like the clock I don’t follow, Tomorrow ain’t promised, so I spit it raw, hollow. Every scar is a lyric, every bruise is a b**t, I wear my pain loud — call it concrete street. Punk kids and rap rats, together we rise, A symphony of chaos under broken streetlights. [Bridge] Broken bones and spray-paint tags, We don’t need your paper bags. Life’s a mess, but that’s our song, We’ll scream it out — you’ll sing along! [Final Chorus] Skate or break — we don’t care! Concrete kids with rebel flair. Losers, rebels, misfit crew, Punk plus rap — forever true! [Spoken Word] You ever notice how every a***t’s got a rulebook? Like they got life figured out, but they’re still broke, still bitter, preaching about “success” in a suit that don’t even fit. Man, screw that. We got concrete for a classroom, the streets for a textbook, and our scars are the diplomas. Welcome to the Concrete Playground. [Outro]