LYRICS

[Intro | style: West Coast bounce rap w/ dark playful G-funk | voice: male | cadence/SPM: 200–220]
“After five years on the East Coast…”
Yeah. I came back to Los Santos.
Not for family. For favorable tax conditions.
Map screen open, morals closed.
[Verse 1 | cadence/SPM: 220–250]
I got cheat-code money—my bank app feel like a pause menu,
Tap “properties,” it’s a grocery list, I’m bored in a marble vestibule.
Safehouse roulette: Mulholland mornings, Willowfield nights,
In San Fierro on a whim, Las Venturas on a vice.
Cribs, whips, clips, chips—no commas, just karma on silent,
My accountant call it “asset allocation,” I call it “ammo in private.”
Garage slot after garage slot, I’m overflowin’ like a glitch,
Too many keys on my ring—look like I’m runnin’ for mayor of rich.
Different girlfriends in different areas, like districts on the radar,
One in Ganton love the lowriders, one in Bayside hate my “later.”
Respect meter maxed, but I treat it like a thermostat setting,
“Turn it up,” then turn around and act surprised I’m still sweatin’.
Big Smoke voice in my head: “All you had to do—”
Yeah, I did the damn thing, then I billed it to revenue.
Sweet say “keep it real,” I keep it surreal: silk respawn,
I die, I don’t learn a lesson—I learn where the hospital spawns.
[Pre-Chorus | cadence/SPM: 200–220]
Mission marker blinkin’ like my calendar’s double-booked,
Five-star problem, but I file it under “misunderstood.”
Wanted-level wardrobe: hoodie, suit, then hoodie again,
I change fits like radio stations—same sin, different band.
[Chorus | cadence/SPM: 210–230]
I’m CJ with a CFO, real life feel like San Andreas,
Save point in the penthouse, same stress, just chandeliers.
Cheat-code money, “want it” level—sirens sing, I don’t hear,
New day, new safehouse—load screen, then I disappear.
Garage full of “what if,” trunk full of “of course,”
If consequences had a face, I’d ask it for directions—deadpan, no remorse.
[Verse 2 | cadence/SPM: 230–260 with brief double-time spurts]
I bought the club like “management,” irony in a necktie,
Throw bills like skill points, then I act like I’m “next guy.”
Kent Paul backstage, talkin’ scandal like it’s stock tips,
I nod like “diversify,” while the bassline does backflips.
OG Loc want features—cool, I’ll fund your little fantasy,
You rap about “the streets,” I own ‘em like a weird annuity.
Ryder mad at loyalty; I’m loyal to the loadout,
Weapon wheel spin—my “retirement plan” got a rocket-shaped “hold out.”
Body shop mean two things: car paint and messy texts,
I keep it waxed and “we should talk”—same polish, different stress.
Casino calculus in Venturas: I count cards? Nah, I count exits,
Stack chips, stack clips—stack alibis till the truth feels senseless.
Madd Dogg fallin’ off the roof in my memory like a punchline,
I catch the bag, not the vibe—my empathy got a low battery, punch-time.
Devin Weston? I don’t need him—my satire got its own throne,
I’m so paid I can roleplay poor—then I laugh in a paid-off phone.
I pass Grove Street, wave like “family,” then I’m gone with a grin,
I’m buildin’ an empire outta shortcuts—idiom twisted, still fits.
[Bridge (five-star chaos) | cadence/SPM: 250–280 double-time spikes]
Ayo, stars—stop callin’ me, my schedule packed with petty crimes and Pilates,
Helicopter overhead like a nosy neighbor with expensive hobbies.
Swerve-serve-curve—freeway ballet, I’m allergic to traffic court,
They treat me like a mission fail; I treat ‘em like a sports report.
Took a “wrong turn,” ended up right back at my safehouse door,
Irony: I run from the law—then tip the valet and ask for more.
Respawn in silk, hospital receipt look like a brunch menu,
Pay the fee, leave the scene, life’s a loop—who’s gonna punish who?
[Chorus | cadence/SPM: 210–230]
I’m CJ with a CFO, real life feel like San Andreas,
Save point in the penthouse, same stress, just chandeliers.
Cheat-code money, “want it” level—sirens sing, I don’t hear,
New day, new safehouse—load screen, then I disappear.
Garage full of “what if,” trunk full of “of course,”
If consequences had a face, I’d ask it for directions—deadpan, no remorse.
[Final Hook/Outro | cadence/SPM: 180–210 (half-time feel, dry)]
Mission complete: “Buy another house you’ll forget you own.”
I got more homes than feelings; more cars than alone.
Map screen open—my morals still on mute.
If this is real life… somebody tell the radio to loop.