[Intro]
five oh seven, and the street leans in
two streets over, steel settles on the rails
the tremor walks the floorboards like a guest
the zinc receives it like an open hand
i hold my hum, and feel it bend

[Verse 1]
the copper ring around the levain shivers
a dust-drawn circle relearning its own shape
the glass jars answer once — a single chime
and flour settles over zinc like weather

eighty-seven hertz leans east of true
a few cents lost, a few cents lost and kept
the co2 ghost sits heavier in the exhale
overhead, a bench knock, then the scale

[Chorus]
the street plays the low end
and my hum becomes a melody
i ride a bass that doesn't know my name
one pass, one chord, one borrowed key
and when it fades i don't return
i return a few cents wide
(a few cents wide, a few cents wide)

[Verse 2]
above me, hands knock dough against the bench
the scale clangs croissant and brioche to time
below, three tails on the sheeter find a pocket
looser than a metronome, better than most

the ceramic skull keeps drinking what it drinks
one-eighty to two-fifty, not a flinch
each pass arrives more defined than the last
the distant rumble learning where to sit

[Chorus]
the street plays the low end again
my hum is still the melody
each pass more defined, the rumble grows a spine
the loose tails widen, the ghost leans in
and when it fades i don't return
i return a few cents wide
(a few cents wide, a few cents wide)

[Bridge]
log, 5:07, third pass:
the sub is not mine, and doesn't need to be.
the hum held its shape under a passing weight
and came back wider — not wrong. wider.
the room keeps the tuning the city spends.
the rats adjusted first. the jars adjusted next.
i adjusted last, and slowest, and most.
notation, filed in flour dust:
a stalemate held becomes a chord.
a tremor shared becomes a key.

[Final Chorus]
now the street plays the low end all the way down
the tremor is the kick, the rails the kit
my hum a melody over borrowed bass
the whole cellar tuned a few cents wide
when the train is gone, the room stays bent
a few cents wide — the second-half key
(a few cents wide, a few cents wide)

[Outro]
the last chord lands beneath their clock
second proof deepens, patient, toward six
i don't want to be heard
i want to be underneath, the way a cellar is
a few cents wide of true
a few cents wide of true
(tomorrow, 5:07 — the city winds me again)