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**[Intro: High-Pitch Helium Voice – Kingpin Skinny Pimp Style]** *(Echoed, warped, like a ghost through blown speakers)*
> *Yeeeeaaaah… tape’s hot, blood’s froze…*
> *Woods callin’, they know I’m back from the hole…*
> *You hear that hiss? That’s your soul on rewind…*
> *Memphis don’t sleep… it stalks.*
> *Click-clack, motherfucker — welcome to the reel.*

*(Beat drops: Deep, rattling 808 slide. A horror sample loops — distant screams pitch-shifted down, church bells cracking like bones. Layered hi-hats skitter like roaches across concrete. The cassette wobble hums underneath.)*

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**[Verse 1: Deep Southern White Boy From the Woods – Slow, Menacing Flow]**
I creep from the pines where the fog eat names,
No badge, no shame, just a .45 with aims.
Cassette cursed, every bar got a curse,
If you test this verse — you get buried first.

I was raised on crunk and the stench of the ditch,
Where we burn the law with a match and a switch.
No love for the fake, I don’t play for applause,
I drill through your chest just to check for the cause.

My voice crackle thick like old sermon tapes,
Preachin' peace 'til the blade kiss your face.
I don’t run shit — I *rule* it in silence,
One pull of the trigger, your whole bloodline finishes.

From South Memphis mud to the Northside flame,
I’m the reason your homies don’t speak my name.
You ain’t gangsta — you costume, you toy,
I’m the nightmare your daddy warned you about.

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**[Hook: High-Pitch Helium Voice + Deep Voice Layered Together]**
> *Tape spin, sin win!*
> *Catch me where the dead things begin!*
> *Kill or be killed — that’s the code I’m in!*
> *White boy demon with a soul never pinned!*
> *Click-clack, boom — now your block feel thin!*
> *This ain’t music… this is where you end within.*

*(Horror sample flares: reversed choir chanting, thunder rolls backward. 808s double down — sub-bass vibrating the floorboards.)*

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**[Verse 2: Faster Eminem-Style Flow – Southern Slang, Local Flavor, Intense Rhyme Schemes]**
I spit ice picks, precise syntax,
Flip tracks like bricks in a trap house tax.
I’m Three 6 without the feature,
Cold-hearted preacher with a butcher’s creature.

From Raleigh roads to Frayser nights,
Where we pack souls in the trunk lights.
I don’t flex for the ‘Gram, I don’t post for the views,
I leave proof in the woods — tied up in shoes.

My dawgs move quiet, like smoke in the vent,
We don’t shoot to scare — we shoot to *extinct*.
You talk loud on the net? That’s cute, that’s real sweet,
But out here, one phone call means your whole street delete.

I wear pain like a coat stitched in hate,
Raised by wolves, taught to dominate.
No mercy in my DNA, no prayer in my gun,
Just Memphis time — where the sun don’t come.

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**[Bridge: Whispered Spoken Word Over Distant Piano & Creaking Doors]**
> You ever heard a man beg with a gag in his mouth?
> …That’s the sound of respect.
> We don’t write rules… we