Three Seventy-One

This track was born from a real headline: National average gas price hitting $3.718/gallon, up 80 cents from last month, with diesel approaching $5/gallon. Majik delivers the report through hip-hop, letting the data hit as hard as the beat. Lines like "Three seventy-one at the pump this morning, eighty cents more than last month," anchor the track in specifics that generic coverage misses. The mood — frustrated — reflects the emotional reality behind the numbers. Every Majik's Studio news track exists to make you feel the story, not just read it.

[verse 1] Three seventy-one at the pump this morning, eighty cents more than last month, I'm doing the math in my head while the nozzle keeps running up front. Used to fill the tank for forty, now it's pushing seventy-two, And the diesel rig beside me? That man's paying what he's due— Five dollars a gallon, just under, let that number sit, A dollar thirty-four more than before the first missile hit. I drive thirty miles to work each way, five days, that's the grind, Fifty extra dollars every week I gotta find. The gas station owner shaking his head behind the glass, Said he's never seen the prices climb this high this fast. Pre-war we were sitting pretty, seventy a barrel crude, Now it spiked to one-twenty, dropped to a hundred—still we're screwed. The commuter lane at six AM is thinner every day, People carpooling, biking, some just can't afford to pay. So I'm squeezing every mile out of every single drop, Three seventy-one and climbing—when does this thing stop? [chorus] Three seventy-one, pump won't stop, Eighty cents higher, dollar on top. Three seventy-one, working man's cost, Every cent is a cent that we lost. Three seventy-one, pump won't stop, War tax hits from the bottom to the top. [verse 2] My neighbor drives a school bus, she's feeling every cent, The district's talking service cuts cause half the budget's spent. Diesel runs the yellow buses, diesel runs the trucks, Diesel runs the trains and boats—we're running out of luck. The rideshare drivers doing math, the margins getting thin, Fare stays the same but fuel costs eating everything within. I talked to Tony at the body shop, he drives a Ford F-one-fifty, Said he's spending four hundred a month on gas, that's getting gritty. Pre-war, February, gas was two-ninety, give or take, Now it's three-seventy-one and every wallet's got an ache. The oil companies posting record profits, quarter after quarter, While the single mama in the minivan is rationing her daughter. Drive less, eat less, heat less—that's the working-class refrain, Eighty cents don't sound like much until it multiplies the pain. So next time someone says the war's a world away from here, Tell them check the gas pump price and it's painfully clear. [chorus] Three seventy-one, pump won't stop, Eighty cents higher, dollar on top. Three seventy-one, working man's cost, Every cent is a cent that we lost. Three seventy-one, pump won't stop, War tax hits from the bottom to the top. [bridge] Two-ninety to three-seventy in the span of thirty days, That's the war tax everybody pays. Diesel at five dollars, truckers pulling off the road, Every price at every store is carrying that load. Oil was seventy, spiked to one-twenty on the charts, Settled at a hundred but it's tearing lives apart. [chorus] Three seventy-one, pump won't stop, Eighty cents higher, dollar on top. Three seventy-one, working man's cost, Every cent is a cent that we lost. Three seventy-one, pump won't stop, War tax hits from the bottom to the top. [outro] Three seventy-one... three seventy-one... Fill the tank and watch the savings come undone. Three seventy-one... three seventy-one... The war tax hits everyone under the sun.