**Run'n It Up**
*A Lo-fi School Hip-Hop Odyssey – Album Cover Invocation*
*(Revised: Father-Daughter Eternal)*
Beneath a bruised velvet sky, where midnight blue bleeds into bruised plum,
wild palm fronds claw upward like desperate hands grasping at neon rain.
The title ignites across the darkness—**Run'n It Up**—
lime venom bleeding slow into royal indigo,
letters dripping, alive, never quite drying,
as if the paint itself is still running, still rising, still refusing to settle.
This is no mere sleeve.
It is the first breath after the last rule broke—
a father's vow carved into sound for his daughter,
a legacy passed not in stone, but in rhythm and fire.
Thirteen chapters pulse inside like a heart that learned to beat for two:
It opens with the dawn raid (**Run It Up**),
flat-bill shadow pulled low, boots kissing cracked concrete,
eyes daring the city to blink first—
already running so she never has to start from zero.
Then the mirror hour (**Sing'n to Myself**),
fifty winters carved into golden skin,
summer highways unspooling behind like old film reels,
the old self staring up at the new, half-laughing, half-weeping,
knowing every mile logged is one less she’ll have to walk alone.
Love arrives soft as fog over water (**Deep Blue, Happy Skies**),
first in her mother’s endless cerulean gaze—
then doubled, trebled, multiplied in Bay-Bay’s wide, wondering eyes—
the sky itself reflected twice, a prize so bright it burns the lungs,
a father staring into forever and seeing his daughter staring back.
The table turns (**Ante Up**).
Elephants thunder through porcelain empires,
tightropes twist into nooses,
black-hole rabbits grin from the dark,
viper women hooded in silk strike without sound.
Every bar a raised blade—
because the world will try her too, and he’s arming her with truth.
Yet she remains the compass (**Keep'n Me On**),
fourteen years of rainy hush and silent fire,
her nestle into these arms the truest definition—
Run'n It Up no longer stacks or smoke,
but the slow, shameless gravity of bodies finding home,
a father holding the line so his daughter can always find her way back.
When lanes vanish (**Home**),
you commandeer the silo, strap the rocket to your ribs,
and launch screaming toward Nerrelly—
the place belonging hides when the world forgets your name,
so she’ll never have to search for it in the dark.
The bloodline sings loudest (**Just like Papi** / **My Hero**):
Daddy, Papi, the outlaw who laughed at rules that tried to snap his spine.
You wear his cap at first light, sift through cosmic love letters and memory wars,
spread wings wide enough to outrun his every fear—
then fold them around her, whispering:
Power comes from those who run it up.
You’ll show her how.
Always.
Then the creature awakens (**Putrafied and Petrified Rhymes**):
future-sent curses rot in the mouth while they harden to stone,
pendulums swing through spectral hell,
Medusa heads slump in duffle bags,
one-inch psalms clutched like live triggers—
rhymes that decay across dimensions and still refuse to die,
so she’ll know even the monsters bow when the pen is held right.
Glory crowns the arc (**Everlastingly Glorious**):
Bay-Bay and the Notorious Outlaw, twin stars heaven-forged,
keys to a kingdom handed over with trembling fire,
from rock-bottom bottles to the soft chaos of diapers—
nothing so eternal as this father-daughter flame.
Hell itself cracks open (**Beyond Hell's Troubles**):
chrysalis prisons gleam like buried gems in the skull,
deadly mouths flee south through cartoon nightmares,
chessboards of flame confess their own moves—
you collect gorgon trophies and run the very last time,
clearing the path so her steps can be lighter.
The craft is laid bare (**The Art of (Run'n It Up)**):
epiphanies ridden like rogue elephants through shattered rooms,
windshield kisses from Mister Mayhem himself,
survival transmuted to divine swordplay—
a masterclass whispered to her future self:
Who’d have known the run would gild you this bright?
And at the end, silence roars (**The Coldest Sound (Silence)**).
No hush, no fade.
A full-throated banger—shadowbans, blue-balled fury, Sasquatch squats, epileptic full-send prayers—
hoping to offend every ear, because nothing freezes colder than being unheard,
and he’ll be damned if the world ever tries to silence his daughter.
This record is a living scar, a love vow, a rocket scar across the night,
a father’s oath sworn on his daughter’s future,
a middle finger carved in lime-and-indigo fire
to every rule that ever tried to break them both.
The paint on the cover still weeps because the run never sleeps—
and neither does the promise.
**Run'n It Up**
*Father to daughter. Outlaw eternal. Golden. Glow'n. Glisten'n.*
*From first breath to final blaze—and every furious, tender inch between.*
