Lately you been treatin’ a promise like it’s a parking ticket.

Somethin’ you slap under the windshield, squint at sideways, and stroll off like responsibility just a rumour.

You figured maybe time would babysit it. Maybe the rain would baptise it. Maybe wind would snatch it up like an unpaid bar tab.

That’s where you slipped, shamoan – ’cause later ain’t a strategy. Later’s just fear in gym shorts, stretchin’ real deliberate before it breaks into a sprint.

See, once you start postponin’, you start pretendin’. You convince yourself a debt is paper. Ink. A couple stiff signatures you could argue over bargain-bin whiskey, then fold neat once the lights get low and the lies get cozy.

But debt ain’t paper. Debt’s a conversation, and Ram Jam don’t ghost mid-sentence – especially when my name’s still sittin’ there unanswered, tappin’ its foot like you lost the valet ticket.

That’s why when you said I owed you – you said it loud. Like volume adds weight.

Like hollerin’ at an ATM ever made it spit out an apology.

But noise don’t move me, brother. I was raised round men who didn’t raise voices. They stood still, and the room fixed its posture outta respect.

That’s what you missed when you took my ride. Not ’cause you needed it. Not ’cause you honoured it.

You took it hopin’ I’d feel smaller without it.

That ride? It ain’t just metal and motion. It’s hours earned. Miles survived. Freedom hummin’ low before it even shows its face.

When you tried to twist that into leverage? It told me everything I needed to know. You didn’t have leverage – you had my patience – and the second a man reaches for leverage? He already wobblin’.

That’s bringin’ a ladder just to feel tall. That’s rentin’ courage and prayin’ nobody asks for the receipt.

So, you doubled down – locked my ride behind walls, cameras, and those two clearance-rack mannequins you call security.

But that ride don’t respond to intimidation, Don Spaghetti, and neither do I. See, intimidation only works when somebody’s in a hurry – and Ram Jam ain’t never rushed nothin’ worth havin’.

Patience lets you watch folks tell on themselves when they think they winnin’. That’s why you thought interest was runnin’ – and it was…

Just not the kind you spreadsheet, motha focka.

See, every night you laid down knowin’ you was holdin’ somethin’ that ain’t yours? Sleep got thin.

You woke up hopin’ numbers could soothe a conscience they never once calculated.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t mad. Wasn’t rushin’. Wasn’t even inconvenienced.

I was just standin’ back, watchin’ you turn a simple situation into a whole personality trait.

Nah… I didn’t turn up at your compound bangin’ pots tryin’ to make noise. I came with a level in one hand and the universe in the other, just to square what you let lean with a silence you couldn’t bribe. And that quiet? That ain’t peace.

That’s the sound of leverage dyin’.

So next time you think about leavin’ somethin’ on my windshield? Make sure it’s a compliment.

‘Cause ol’ Ram Jam don’t pay fines…

He just keep on rollin’, baby.

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