Lyrics
[Intro - heavy 808 bass rumble, chopped-and-screwed ad-libs echoing in the club, DJ scratch FX]
Yeah...
Southside...
Crunk it up, gang...
[Verse 1 - trap hi-hats stuttering, menacing 808 slides, deep guttural male rap, low-pass filter on first four bars]
I slide through the lot with the windows tinted black,
Gold on my neck, .40 tucked where the seat at,
Red lights flash but the pack still intact,
I been juggin’ all night, money longer than a Cadillac.
Whole squad deep, we don’t do no co-defendants,
Rims taller than the law, speakers blowin’ out the sentence,
Crunk got the trunk vibratin’, liquor got the mind bent,
If the opps slide through, better pray they got repentance.
[Pre-Chorus - rising filtered synths, ad-libs (“yeah,” “what”) layered, tension building]
They know the name when the bass hit the pavement,
Hood on lock, every block payin’ homage and statement,
We don’t talk much, we just let the drums speak,
If you ain’t from the mud, better stay out these streets.
[Chorus - full crunk energy, distorted 808 kicks, crowd chant hooks, heavy sidechain on synths]
We in the club throwin’ hundreds, make it rain on a hater,
Southside crunk, gettin’ lit, middle finger to the fakers,
Gangster walk through the door, everybody step aside,
If you ain’t ridin’ with the real, better swallow that pride.
Crunk! (Crunk!) Gang! (Gang!)
Bass hit the chest like a bullet from the chrome,
Crunk! (Crunk!) Gang! (Gang!)
We don’t leave the function till the speakers get blown.
[Verse 2 - darker tone, rapid-fire flow, extra hi-hat rolls, occasional gunshot samples]
Came from the bottom where the re-up never ended,
Turned a half into a whole, now the trap house splendid,
Diamonds on the pinky, but the trigger finger steady,
If they test the gang, we reload, aim, and bury.
Pull up to the spot, valet know to keep it runnin’,
Two-step with the piece tucked, but the music still bumpin’,
Shorty on my side, redbone, body like a hunnid,
Told her keep it quiet, we don’t do no pillow talkin’.
[Bridge - half-time drums, single 808 pulse, menacing whisper rap, reverb on last line]
Lights low, smoke thick, everybody on ten,
One wrong move and the whole room spin,
I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, but it usually find me,
So I keep the .40 on me like it’s part of the fit, G.
[Final Chorus - explosive, full band feel with extra brass stabs, layered gang vocals]
We in the club throwin’ hundreds, make it rain on a hater,
Southside crunk, gettin’ lit, middle finger to the fakers,
Gangster walk through the door, everybody step aside,
If you ain’t ridin’ with the real, better swallow that pride.
Crunk! (Crunk!) Gang! (Gang!)
Bass hit the chest like a bullet from the chrome,
Crunk! (Crunk!) Gang! (Gang!)
We don’t leave the function till the speakers get blown.
[Outro - chopped hook fading, 808 decaying, distant club reverb]
Southside...
Crunk...
Gang...
(We don’t leave till the speakers get blown...)