Zone 6: Pluto, Scooter, Meechie

Lyrics

[Intro]

Nayvadius, whispering to the mic stand in that Kirkwood basement, November 20, 1983, still echoing.

[Verse 1]
You, old Shure SM58, dented from basement cyphers,
gripped by hands that turned Zone 6 into myth.
Future Hendrix, Nayvadius DeMun Wilburn,
from the K apartments on Hosea Williams Drive,
calling you Pluto's voice box.
That sticky summer air, 88 degrees at midnight,
smell of hot wings from JR Crickets lingering.
You caught the first Auto-Tune experiments,
raw bars about come-ups and Freebandz dreams.

[Chorus]
Mic, you birthed the trap echo,
from Kirkwood corners to global streams.
Pluto, Scooter, Meechie—your children.
Zone 6 genesis, in your silver grille.

[Verse 2]
Young Scooter, Kenneth Edward Bailey, March 28, 1986,
leaning into you after street shifts,
rapping Street Lottery lines in dim light.
DJ Esco mixing on that battered Akai MPC,
56 Nights tape rolling, Dubai jail stories folded in.
You, mic, the quiet witness to Freebandz meetings,
in apartments where bass shook cracked walls.
Homixide Meechie, early 20s shadow,
picking up your cord, extending the line.

[Bridge]
Oh, microphone, you hold the unsung mentors,
the corner producers without credits,
the families enduring the all-night sessions.
What stories did you swallow, unspoken?

[Verse 3]
That cypher in 2013, under sodium lamps,
Scooter spitting to the concrete,
you amplifying the humidity-soaked words.
Future's Pluto nickname, born from library books
snuck between street hours, sci-fi dreams in trap beats.
Zone 6 police maps framing the cradle,
Kirkwood, Edgewood, East Atlanta veins.
You, the tool that turned grind into legend.

[Chorus]
Mic, you birthed the trap echo,
from Kirkwood corners to global streams.
Pluto, Scooter, Meechie—your children.
Zone 6 genesis, in your silver grille.

[Outro]
Nayvadius, still holding you close,
whispering futures from the K.
Goodnight, mic, rest your wires.