Listen
Lyrics
𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙮 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙎𝙪𝙗𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙗𝙚 💪
𝙏𝒆𝙭𝒕
Every night & every morn,
Some are cursed, some are torn,
Born to pain, born to fight,
Some are shadows in the night.
Every morn & every night,
Some see gold, some lose sight,
Some got wings, some just crawl,
Some rise up, some just fall.
Tell me why the dice ain’t fair,
Why some kings breathe poisoned air?
Why some rise while others drown,
Why some smile, some break down?
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night,
Some get love, some get war,
Some get less, some get more!
Runnin’ these streets like a ghost in a maze,
Watchin’ the lucky ones set fire to the stage,
I see the rich sip blood from a glass,
While the lost ones beg for a piece of the past.
Pray to the moon, ain’t no sun in my sky,
Born in the gutter, ain’t scared to die,
Some get the light, some fight to survive,
Some get a taste, some eat just to die.
Fate ain’t mercy, fate ain’t kind,
Spin that wheel, leave fate behind,
Who’s got power? Who’s got chains?
Some play God, some die in pain!
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night,
Some get crowns, some get scars,
Some get light, some burn in dark!
Every night & every morn…
Some are cursed, some are torn…
Every morn & every night…
Some will fade, some will fight…
The idea#
Blake’s binary—some born to sweet delight, some to endless night—gets dragged into street grit and class anger. Rap cadence suits the argument: dice that aren’t fair, kings breathing poisoned air, rich mouths at a glass while others beg for a piece of the past.
The chorus is almost liturgical in its cruelty: some get crowns, some get scars; some get light, some burn in the dark. Fate is neither kind nor merciful; the speaker runs the maze like a ghost and watches luck set fire to someone else’s stage. Prayer goes to the moon because there is no sun in this sky.
I hear less self-pity than inventory. The track names the distribution of pain without promising redistribution—only the cold clarity of knowing which night you were born into.
