Keep the Receipt
by Omari Voss · Hip-Hop/Rap · Made with Suno · 1 play
Style
Prompt
West Coast hip-hop, 88 BPM swung 4/4 at an unhurried head-nod pace; expressive mid-low male rap in a conversational pocket with crisp internal-rhyme phrasing, restrained melodic hook, subtle self-doubled harmony, and a brief spoken outro, Warm, intimate late-night mix with a confident surface and uneasy undertow; punchy swung drums pull back beneath the bridge, rounded sub bass, muted funk guitar, warm Rhodes, sparse glassy keys
Lyrics
Nah, put theirs on mine. Yeah. All of it. Keep the receipt, keep the receipt, I got everybody here tonight—it's on me. Fold it up small, put it under my seat. If I say it's all love, why'd I keep the receipt? Corner booth, torn red leather, quarter past two, Six of us debating what a little cash do. Jay got the pancakes, swore he wasn't hungry, Now he guarding that plate like we all owe him money. Waitress sets the check where the salt ring dried, Three hands hit pockets; I slide it to my side. "Keep yours. You got rent. You got tires to replace." Watch the worry leave a little room in his face. I remember splitting fries, doing math on a napkin, Laughing extra loud when the card wasn't tapping. Now the little black tray doesn't scare me to death, I can cover six plates, let a few people rest. Leave a tip big enough for the shift she's surviving, Tell a joke, get a laugh, hear the whole booth rising. She asks, "Need your copy?" I say, "Yeah, that's fine." Fold the total out of sight, keep the signature mine. Keep the receipt, keep the receipt, I got everybody here tonight—it's on me. Fold it up small, put it under my seat. If I say it's all love, why'd I keep the receipt? Same booth, next Friday, Jay says he can't stay, Got a morning interview halfway out of state. I say, "So you get a little shot and forget us?" He says, "Us? They said good luck. You're the one upset, cuz." I laugh like he's joking; he doesn't laugh with me. My hand finds that paper before I know it's reaching. "After all—" He cuts in, "Go on. Say the amount." Now the waitress tops my coffee; I'm staring down. He says, "You fed me. I thanked you. I meant what I said. I didn't know the breakfast bought a vote in my head." I had called it giving room; I'd been renting him a chair, Every favor had a little clause I didn't put there. Still wanted him to eat. Still wanted him to win. Just pictured every finish with him thanking me again. His half lands beside me. I start sliding it back— Then I leave it where he put it. Let him choose his own tab. The ink's going pale where my thumb wore it thin. I can still name the total, can't remember his grin. He says, "You coming Sunday?" I say, "What should I bring?" "Just you." I almost ask if he's sure what he means. Keep the receipt, keep the receipt, For the jacket that don't fit, for the shoes on my feet. You can leave this table without owing me. If I say it's all love, you don't owe me a thing. Sunday. I'll be there. What time?