About the song
A story for this song hasn’t been added yet.
Words from the artist’s archive
Cap Table lyrics
Artist-supplied lyric sheet, matched by title. The sheet may differ from this released performance. Production notes and alternate promotional cuts are omitted.
Read the lyric sheet
Intro
Eight wristbands, twelve hands out. This how the kingdom get split.
Verse 1
Lot G, 4:02, the sun still actin' mean, the manifest still loadin' on a cracked-up phone screen. Cousin want a band, the investor want a band, local "VIP" got a Cash App and a five-year plan. Eight laminates, I count 'em like a deacon count tithes, Auntie sendin' prayer hands, three dots, then the lie: "Just one." It is never one, it's a bloodline behind it, group chat at ninety-nine plus, I scroll, I can't find it.
Pre-chorus
Count the bands like a cap table, watch the shares get diluted, promised one to my day-one, now the label say reroute it. Hold it.
Chorus
Cap table, cap table, choir at the gate, at the gate, Heaven got a guest list, baby, you ain't on it today, on it today. Color of your wristband say how much you really made, half of us is fakin' it, the other half just prayed.
Verse 2
Marcus held me down on Twenty-Seventh when the lights ain't work, told him "first band yours," put it in the group, on church. Then the label slid a number, influencer with two mil need that orange Artist Comp by six, or the post gettin' killed. I typed it, then deleted, typed it, watched the bubble move, "He family." Nah. I said he was. Past tense in the room. Marcus seen the read receipt, ain't even type a word, just a thumbs-down on my message, loudest thing I heard.
Verse 3
Stylist pull up draped in forty thousand, all of it a rental, tag still on the Cuban link, the confidence incidental, flash a fake all-access, security too tired to be judgmental, we all in one line for one gate, prayin' the bouncer sentimental.
Pre-chorus
Count the bands like a cap table, every favor got a price, the realest flex ain't access, it's somebody filmin' your life. Watch.
Chorus
Cap table, cap table, choir at the gate, at the gate, Heaven got a guest list, baby, you ain't on it today, on it today. Color of your wristband say how much you really made, half of us is fakin' it, the other half just prayed.
Verse 4
One band left, my hand froze on the lanyard string, the videographer been here since the parking-lot thing. Caught the night the place was empty, caught me out with no friends, so I clipped it to his wrist, "you the only proof we came." The orange one, the holy one, the one that hold the frame, the flex was never gettin' in, the flex is who you bring.
Bridge
"You good?" "I'm good." "Where Marcus?" "He left." "He posted?" "Nah. He saw it though." Heaven got a guest list... you ain't on it. But the camera don't ask for a band.
Verse 5
Side stage to center, organ hit, the 808 obey, I look down, eight strangers gone, but the day-one footage stay. Every "send me one" and "please" is the music video now, the cap table dissolve when the first note hit the crowd. Ten thousand wristbands up, can't tell the pauper from the king, and Marcus in the front, no band, the loudest one to sing.
Pre-chorus
Count the bands like a cap table, then the music make it plain, nobody at the gate remember colors once you say a name. Sing.
Chorus
Cap table, cap table, choir at the gate, at the gate, Heaven got a guest list, baby, you ain't on it today, on it today. Color of your wristband say how much you really made, half of us is fakin' it, the other half just prayed. Plus-one, plus-one, keep your laminate, laminate, when the lights hit, every soul in here the same shade.
Outro
Eight wristbands. Twelve hands. One camera.
Inside the recording
Eight wristbands, twelve hands out. This how the kingdom get split.
Count the bands like a cap table, watch the shares get diluted, promised one to my day-one, now the label say reroute it.
Eight wristbands. Twelve hands. One camera.
Excerpts from artist-supplied lyric files matched by title. Lyric sheets may differ from the released performance.