Let’s rebuild it from the ground up—meaner, colder, heavier swing, and a hook that snaps like a trapdoor.

Let’s rebuild it from the ground up—meaner, colder, heavier swing, and a hook that snaps like a trapdoor. I was riding through Tennessee… [Hook – Explosive, Sticky, Hit-Level ridin’ through Tennessee, whole block know me, Big smoke in the wind, big talk come free. If they lookin’ for a boss, then they all gon’ see— Ain’t nobody in the south put it down like me. Yeah, the grind don’t stop, not a day, no sleep, Got cuts on my knuckles from the life I keep. Tryna count me out, better count on defeat— I’m the one they fear talkin’ ’bout over the beat. [Verse 1] I was ridin’ through Tennessee, sun low on the ridge, Got the past in my mirror, got a dream on the bridge. Every mile got a memory, every turn got a scar, But I’m built like a motor that was forged for war. Had the weight on my back, had the doubt in my face, Had the wolves in the dark tryna taste my place. But I’m too damn sharp, too real, too grown— Turn a whole damn struggle to a map of my throne. [Hook – Explosive] I was ridin’ through Tennessee, whole block know me, Big smoke in the wind, big talk come free. If they lookin’ for a boss, then they all gon’ see— Ain’t nobody in the south put it down like me. Yeah, the grind don’t stop, not a day, no sleep, Got cuts on my knuckles from the life I keep. Tryna count me out, better count on defeat— I’m the one they fear talkin’ ’bout over the beat. [Verse 2] Let ’em whisper my name, let ’em doubt my step, I been walkin’ through the fire with a heart full of debt. Paid dues in advance, paid blood, paid time, Now my voice hit the room like a landmine rhyme. If you seen where I’m from, you’d respect my climb, I was buildin’ up a kingdom out of nickels and grime. Ain’t a soul in my lane, ain’t a chain on my feet— I’m the storm in the valley and the king of the street. [Hook – Final, Harder] I was ridin’ through Tennessee, whole block know me, Big smoke in the wind, big talk come free. If they lookin’ for a boss, then they all gon’ see— Ain’t nobody in the south put it down like me. Yeah, the grind don’t stop, not a day, no sleep, Got cuts on my knuckles from the life I keep. Tryna count me out, better count on defeat— I’m the one they fear talkin’ ’bout over the beat. If you want this version dirtier, faster, more Southern, or with heavier cuss heat, the whole structure is ready to mutate.