[Dry boom-bap drums] [Dusty piano chord and electric bass] [Male, rhythmic spoken-sung] Cement under the soles, salt drying on the rail. Sunday shoes polished while the weekday plans fail. Mama says, “Stand straight. Don’t let them smell the fear.” The rent says, “Next Monday.” The job says, “Maybe next year.” Church shirt, cracked wall, motorbike outside. Saint card in the wallet, nothing else inside. The mountain in the distance like a thought nobody speaks. We learned pride on Sunday, hunger through the week. [Female Hook] Cement, salt and Sunday shoes. Cemento, sale e dignità. You can take away the money, ma 'o nomme mio nun 'o può accattà. [Male] My brother knew computers. My cousin fixed a car. My friend could write a poem that could open every scar. None of that impressed the man behind the desk. He said, “You lack experience.” We said, “Experience in what? Surviving this?” [Snare stop] We had degrees in waiting, certificates in doubt, master’s in explaining why the money had run out. But every evening someone brought a chair into the street. One played an old piano. One made rhythm with his feet. That’s how poor men build a kingdom: not with marble, not with gold, but by passing round a melody before the night gets cold. [Female Hook] Cement, salt and Sunday shoes. Cemento, sale e dignità. You can take away the future, ma 'o presente sta ancora ccà. [Harmonica lick] [Male, denser flow] I seen the clean-cut liar get promoted for the lie. I seen the honest woman work until her hands went dry. I seen the son of somebody become somebody fast. I seen the son of nobody keep carrying the past. 'A città te dice: “Curre.” 'A città te rompe 'o sciato. 'A città te chiama figlio sulo quanno hê già pagato. But I know every staircase. I know every broken light. I know every mother counting coins beneath the kitchen light. I know dignity gets heavy when you carry it alone. So I put mine in the rhythm and I bring the rhythm home. [Female Hook, stronger] Cement, salt and Sunday shoes. Cemento, sale e dignità. You can write us out of history, ma 'a memoria resta ccà. Cement, salt and Sunday shoes. Nuje nun simmo 'a pietà. We are more than what is missing. Nuje simmo chello ca verrà. [Instrumental: eight bars of piano, bass, tremolo guitar and boom-bap drums] [Spoken Coda] [Male] Monday morning, same concrete, same salt, same mountain. Different step. [One dry snare hit] Scarpe bone. Schiena dritta. Jammo.
