Lyric

No filter. No polish. Just pulse

LOW END—HANDS UP—GO!

They put the wrong name on the sleeve again

Like legends grow out of somebody else’s pen

But I know where the spark was born—

Backroom speakers, midnight storm

A riff that bites, a kick that cracks

Truth in the dirt, no safety tracks

If they say “prove it,” we don’t explain—

We hit the drop and let it shake the frame

MIS-LA-BELED! BUT IT’S OURS! (HEY!)

NO AUTO, JUST SCARS! (HEY!)

Neck-snapping groove, make the whole room charge!

MIS-LA-BELED! BUT IT’S REAL! (HEY!)

LOW-END GODS ON THE WHEEL! (HEY!)

If you feel that punch, yell the code with us:

CIRCLE PIT! CIRCLE PIT!

Decades flip like a busted clock

Still the same stomp in the sidewalk chalk

Your dad said “turn it down,” then he stayed

Now he’s yelling every word we made

Pretty or not, young or old—

This beat don’t care, it grabs your soul

One take heart, no plastic shine

We bleed in time, we hit the line

For the ones who smile but feel alone

We turn that silence into megatone

Dive if you’re tired, swing if you’re afraid

We’re building a home inside the raid

(Whisper → SHOUT)

Not a copy, not a ghost—

This is the roar that outlives most!

MIS-LA-BELED! BUT IT’S OURS! (HEY!)

NO AUTO, JUST SCARS! (HEY!)

Sub-bass hammer, horns like shards—GO HARD!

MIS-LA-BELED! BUT IT’S REAL! (HEY!)

HEADBANG UNITY SEAL! (HEY!)

If you feel that punch, yell the code with us:

CIRCLE PIT! CIRCLE PIT!

Wrong tag. Right riot

Move