[Verse 1] {Cruising down the street in a six-four, hearing the massive engine roar. Tinted windows rolling up tight, creeping through the middle of the night.|Drift king sliding round the bend, waiting for the screaming tires to end. Smoke is rising from the asphalt, locking the secrets in the vault.|Cowbell ringing in the steady beat, shuffling the rhythm of the feet. The Memphis sound is coming back around, burying the bodies in the ground.|Gold teeth flashing in the dark, lighting up the vital spark. The menace is the flavor that we taste, moving with a frantic kind of haste.|Hydraulics bouncing, scraping on the street, feeling the brutal summer heat. The low rider culture is the law, jaw dropping to the floor in awe.|Tape deck hissing, lo-fi sound, digging the silent bodies from the ground. The grainy texture adds the gritty feel, lighting the candle that was lit and real.|Glock in the glove box, just in case, disappearing without a trace. The paranoia is a quiet friend, waiting for the inevitable end.|Night riders moving in a pack, staying on the winding track. The headlights cutting through the silver haze, trapped inside the digital maze.|Sipping on the syrup, moving slow, telling the people where they need to go. The purple haze is filling up the room, chasing away the impending doom.|Devil shyt, triple six, getting the daily sonic fix. The horror core is rising from the grave, coming here to kill and save.|Sideways sliding, burning rubber smell, welcome to the brutal drift hell. The adrenaline is pumping fast, making the moment truly last.|JDM legends, turbo spool, breaking every single final rule. The blow-off valve is sneezing loud, rising above the digital cloud.|Underground racing, pink slips, loose ships. The stakes are high, the danger is real, gripping the leather of the wheel.|Chopped and screwed, slowing down the time, committing the perfect sonic crime. The voice is deep and demonic now, wiping the sweat from off the brow.|Graveyard shift, working hard, playing in the dusty junkyard. The hustle never stops, the grind is true, coming for me and coming for you.|Phonk wave crashing on the shore, screaming out and asking for more. The distortion is the vital key, setting the captive spirit free.|Murder business, strictly for the street, moving to the raw, chaotic beat. The violence is a necessary tool, breaking the golden rule.|Ghost ride the whip, standing on the roof, searching for the absolute proof. The bravery is bordering on mad, the best time that we ever had.|Neon underglow, lighting up the street, syncing with the brutal beat. The colors blurring into one, waiting for the rising sun.|Outlaw lifestyle, living fast, making the money last. The police sirens fade away, living to fight another day.}

[Pre-Chorus] {Drift, slide, smoke, hide. Nowhere left to run inside. The tires screaming in the night, ready for the second fight.|Load the clip, grip the grain. Washing away the awful pain. The enemy is getting close, the feeling that we hate the most.|Rev the engine, let it scream. Living inside the fever dream. The tachometer hitting red, get out of your mortal head.|Lean, cup, ice, drop. Waiting for the beat to stop. The intoxication setting in, shedding off the second skin.|Switch lanes, hit the gas. Watching the slow moments pass. The velocity is getting high, reaching for the open sky.}

[Instrumental]

[Chorus] {Phonk music, drift king. Making the burning tires sing. Smoking rubber, burning gas, watching the endless city pass.|Memphis horror, lo-fi grain. Driving through the acid rain. The cassette tape is hissing loud, rising above the digital cloud.|Street racing, illegal speed. Satisfying every wicked need. The danger zone is where we live, giving all we have to give.|Cowbell melody, 808. Accepted by the hands of fate. The rhythm is a velvet trap, caught inside the brutal rap.|Murder rob, kill, steal. Making the simulation real. The lyrics dark and brutally mean, the filthiest sound you've ever seen.|Drift angle, perfect line. Everything is going fine. The control is in the steady hand, traveling to a foreign land.|Hardwave texture, saw wave. Coming here to kill and save. The synthesizer screaming pain, washing away the memory stain.|Night Lovell style, dark voice. Making the universal choice. To ride until the wheels fall off, suppressing the final cough.|Gotta get the money, gotta get the cash. Waiting for the system crash. The hustle is the only way, living to fight another day.|Stay strapped, stay low. Watching the quiet river flow. The enemies are everywhere, vanishing into thin air.}

[Instrumental]

[Verse 2] {Parking garage, burnout marks, leaving territorial signs and sparks. The concrete jungle is our domain, ruling through pleasure and through pain.|Subwoofer rattling the license plate, cruising through the city after late. The bass is heavy, low and mean, the darkest sound you've ever seen.|Rolling through the fog machine haze, lost inside the phonk-filled maze. The atmosphere is thick and grey, perfect for the games we play.|Cassette recording, warped and worn, digital age has been reborn. Analog distortion, perfect grit, the aesthetic is a perfect fit.|Sample flipped, pitch shifted down, the scariest sound in any town. The vocal turned demonic growl, prowling like a wolf on prowl.|Three 6 Mafia in the DNA, the Memphis sound is here to stay. The legacy continues on, from dusk until the devil's dawn.|Donut spins in parking lots, connecting all the plot dots. The smoke signals in the air, announcing that we just don't care.|Tinted everything, blacked out ride, nowhere for the law to hide. We see them first, we disappear, masters of the atmosphere.|Lean back, seat reclined, leaving all the stress behind. The chemistry is altering states, opening forbidden gates.|Modified exhaust, loud and proud, rising above the normal crowd. The backfire popping like a gun, announcing that the race is won.|Hand brake pull, rear end slides, technical precision as it glides. The angle perfect, speed maintained, years of practice have been trained.|Fog rolling in from the bay, providing cover for our play. The mist conceals the illegal runs, outlaw sons with smoking guns.|Whitewalls and hydraulic dreams, nothing's ever what it seems. The culture's deep, the roots are strong, we've been here all along.|Chain wallet, baggy jeans, living out these phonk-fueled scenes. The fashion matches the sound, underground and tightly wound.|Graffiti tags on every wall, signatures of those who brawl. The territorial markers placed, evidence cannot be erased.|Burnout competitions start, drifting is a brutal art. The judges are the crowd that cheers, feeding off collective fears.|Nitrous oxide, extra boost, the final weapon that we loose. The burst of speed is intoxicating, acceleration captivating.|Police chase, but we know routes, through the alleys and the shoots. Escape routes memorized by heart, had them down from the start.|Parking structure, spiral ramp, perfect venue for our camp. The levels echo with engine sound, our temple, our sacred ground.|Dashboard covered in fuzzy dice, rolling them and paying price. Superstition guides the way, keeping dangers at bay.|Chrome rims spinning, catching light, flashing signals in the night. The wheels are art, the car's a canvas, street expression, nothing can embarrass.|Tattoos telling street stories, scars and marks of former glories. Every ink mark has a tale, survived and lived to tell the tale.|Corner store, stock up quick, energy drinks and toothpicks. Fuel for the all night grind, leaving the daylight behind.}

[Bridge] {Slow motion, frame by frame. Nothing will ever be the same. The car is dancing on the ice, rolling the final sonic dice.|Atmosphere is dark and cold, stories that are new and old. The samples from a horror flick, making the pulsing beat feel sick.|Vocal chop, repeating fast. Making the moment truly last. The stutter effect is taking hold, turning the simple lead to gold.|Bass drop, distortion high. Looking into the future's eyes. The speakers blowing out the cone, sitting on the speaker throne.|Break check, swerve right. Disappearing into the night. The chase is on, the lights are blue, coming for me and coming for you.}

[Instrumental]

[Chorus] {Phonk music, drift king. Making the burning tires sing. Smoking rubber, burning gas, watching the endless city pass.|Memphis horror, lo-fi grain. Driving through the acid rain. The cassette tape is hissing loud, rising above the digital cloud.|Street racing, illegal speed. Satisfying every wicked need. The danger zone is where we live, giving all we have to give.|Cowbell melody, 808. Accepted by the hands of fate. The rhythm is a velvet trap, caught inside the brutal rap.|Murder rob, kill, steal. Making the simulation real. The lyrics dark and brutally mean, the filthiest sound you've ever seen.|Drift angle, perfect line. Everything is going fine. The control is in the steady hand, traveling to a foreign land.|Hardwave texture, saw wave. Coming here to kill and save. The synthesizer screaming pain, washing away the memory stain.|Night Lovell style, dark voice. Making the universal choice. To ride until the wheels fall off, suppressing the final cough.|Gotta get the money, gotta get the cash. Waiting for the system crash. The hustle is the only way, living to fight another day.|Stay strapped, stay low. Watching the quiet river flow. The enemies are everywhere, vanishing into thin air.}

[Outro] {Parking lot, engine off. Suppressing the final cough. The smell of rubber in the air, vanishing without a care.|Count the money, stack the chips. Loose sink and broken ships. The winner takes the final prize, looking into the future's eyes.|Fade to black, roll the creds. Putting the tired tires to beds. The movie is over now, take a final, sweeping bow.|Silence falls on the street, shuffling the rhythm of the feet. The city sleeps, but we're awake, for goodness and for heaven's sake.|End of tape, click, stop. The final needle drop. The lo-fi hiss is all that stays, guiding us through all our days.}