Ridin Through Trenches

I’m slidin’ through the ville where the real ones get folded,

Chrome in the seat, pain heavy, can’t hold it.

Streets raised wolves, we ain’t never been molded,

Heart full of ice, but the world stay coldest.

Posted on Pine, where the feds ride slow,

Talk greasy on the ‘net, get exposed in the glow.

I done lost more homies than I gained in a year,

Seen mamas at wakes with they souls in tears.

Corner boys prayin’ with a blick in the jeans,

Trap smell like gun oil, dreams full of fiends.

We don’t trust much — love get you lined,

You can’t see pain when it’s tucked in the mind.

Fell out with my dawg, now his pic in the frame,

Ain’t no heaven in the hood, just revenge and names.

I keep one in the head when I’m bendin’ them blocks,

Whole city cursed — angels chillin’ with opps.

I ain’t walkin’ in Memphis, fucking ridin’ through trenches,

Real ones die young, rest sittin’ on benches.

Soul on parole, still duckin’ them sentences,

Pain on the dash, no repentance.

I ain’t walkin’ in Memphis, fucking ridin’ through trenches,

Switch on the stick, my nerves got twitches.

Chrome tears drip when the devil start whisperin’,

God don’t talk back, just silence and tension.

North side dirty, east side reckless,

Bro caught a body, now he movin’ real restless.

Money turn homies into weird reflections,

Hood full of demons, all learnin’ lessons.

Twelve on my bumper, I ain’t pullin’ no stunt,

Car smell like pain and a eighth of runtz.

Philly plug send the work down Kirkwood,

Couple grams short, he gon’ wish that he could.

I’m from where they rob you for your last lil’ hope,

Where funerals look like award show coats.

She prayin’ on her knees, but the rent past due,

Son out trappin’ just to buy mom shoes.

Ain’t no saints, just sinners in forms of friends,

We spin blocks heavy — then spin again.

Told my youngin’ chill, but his heart too numb,

Said he only feel peace when that stick go “drum.”

I ain’t walkin’ in Memphis, fucking ridin’ through trenches,

Real ones die young, rest sittin’ on benches.

Soul on parole, still duckin’ them sentences,

Pain on the dash, no repentance.

I ain’t walkin’ in Memphis, fucking ridin’ through trenches,

Switch on the stick, my nerves got twitches.

Chrome tears drip when the devil start whisperin’,

God don’t talk back, just silence and tension.

I got blood on my hoodie, mud on my kicks,

Prayin’ to the Lord but I ride with sticks.

This that pain they can’t stream or fake in a post,

I been talkin’ to the mirror, not the Holy Ghost.

Told death, “wait up,” I ain’t done my run,

Still got pain in the trunk, still totin’ my gun.

If I crash out now, they gon’ sing my name,

But I’m still in the whip, just dodgin’ shame.

I ain’t walkin’ in Memphis, fucking ridin’ through trenches,

Heart too froze, lost count of my mentions.

Street got codes, but the snakes got pensions,

Ain’t no peace signs, just extensions.