Metooo from polando

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[Intro — low voice, drums building] Wrocław. Same name. More pressure. Mateo from Poland. Let that shit breathe. [Verse 1] Wrocław raised me — hit the floor, then rise and find your feet, On the court I learned the loudest name ain’t shit without a team. Small circle, long memory — I know who had my back, Won’t trade the hand that pulled me up for hands that count a stack. Seen a friendship get a price tag, watched respect get sold, All that cash can buy a jacket, never cover up the cold. I ain’t preaching from a pedestal, I’ve stepped outside my code, Had to face the selfish bastard in the mirror on my own. Got my own shit to account for, got mistakes I can’t delete, Saying “I was wrong” takes more than playing tough across a beat. Money talks? Let it talk — I still decide who gets my time, I’m not putting up my people just to watch a number climb. Hear the accent in the anger, let the consonants crack, I ain’t sanding down my edges just to fit another track. Turn that kick up till the back row feels it knocking in their chest, Put a breath before the downbeat — let the bassline do the rest. [Chorus — shouted, doubled vocals] MATEO FROM POLAND — put some weight on the name! Kick drum cracks, let it rattle the frame! That shit don’t sit right, that shit don’t ring true, Sell your brother for a number — what the fuck is wrong with you? Turn it up! Turn it up! Let the whole block know! Got the rage in my lungs, got the weight in my soul. Few real ones beside me when the whole world goes cold, You can buy a lot of things — this right here ain’t sold! [Verse 2] Won another pot — but did it make a better man? Mirror had a harder question than the cards inside my hand. I can read a face for hours, still be blind to my own tells, Had to call my own bluff before I blamed somebody else. Money in my pocket never fixed an empty room, Can’t replace the ones I love with something shiny, something new. Mum, Dad, my sister — that’s the part you can’t appraise, And my nephews need my presence, not a speech on better days. I’ve got promises to carry, I’ve got reasons to stand straight, I don’t get to call it love if I keep making people wait. Every bridge across the Odra brings me back to what I know: You can walk through your own city feeling homeless in your soul. So I drag it to the microphone and give the truth some teeth, Let the sentence land heavy, leave a little room to breathe. If it don’t sit right in my soul, I don’t play along, Rap’s my scream — I put my whole damn chest into the song. [Chorus — shouted, doubled vocals] MATEO FROM POLAND — put some weight on the name! Kick drum cracks, let it rattle the frame! That shit don’t sit right, that shit don’t ring true, Sell your brother for a number — what the fuck is wrong with you? Turn it up! Turn it up! Let the whole block know! Got the rage in my lungs, got the weight in my soul. Few real ones beside me when the whole world goes cold, You can buy a lot of things — this right here ain’t sold! [Bridge — drums cut, voice close] I remember who picked up when the good times disappeared. I remember who could hear me when I couldn’t make it clear. Keep those names outside the spotlight — I know what they’re worth. Bring the drums back. Let me shake some fucking earth. [Verse 3 — tighter flow, rising intensity] Pressure makes the little cracks impossible to miss, I’ve got plenty — put the mic close, let ’em hear it as it is. I can talk about betrayal, I can point across the room, But the hardest verse to finish starts with “What the fuck did YOU do?” So I write it. Then rewrite it. Leave the easy bullshit out. Every bar gets put to work before I let it leave my mouth. Basketball gave me the lesson: make the extra pass, Be the one who gets back running when the next shot hits the glass. That’s the energy I’m bringing — sweat and grit across the floor, Same few people in my corner, hear ’em louder than before. Cut the lights, cut the chatter, leave the kick and leave the snare, First the floor starts vibrating — then the hands go in the air! [Final Chorus — full energy] MATEO FROM POLAND — put some weight on the name! Kick drum cracks, let it rattle the frame! That shit don’t sit right, that shit don’t ring true, Sell your brother for a number — what the fuck is wrong with you? Turn it up! Turn it up! Let the whole block know! Got the rage in my lungs, got the weight in my soul. Few real ones beside me when the whole world goes cold, You can buy a lot of things — this right here ain’t sold! [Outro — spoken] Wrocław in the vowels. My people in the front row. Mateo from Poland. Now you know.