[Lyric] Inspired By True Events (Crook Brown & SamTRax)

[Intro: Crook Brown]
Yeah
Southside Crook
Inspired by true events

[Chorus: Crook Brown]
This a open letter from a trill nigga
This a open letter from a trill nigga
Hit them pussy niggas wit' the steel, nigga
All that tough talkin' get you killed, nigga
This a open letter from a trill nigga
This a open letter from a trill nigga
Hit them pussy niggas wit' the steel, nigga (Brrr)
All that tough talkin' get you killed, nigga

[Verse 1: Crook Brown]
Son of a saint, but I'm one wit' the demons
Since adolescence, I don't made my assessment for money, I'm fiendin'
And to be real, it's abundance of reasons
But I just want it, patеnt leather, Cool Greys, thе money for pizza
Forgive me Momma, I know I'm a heathen
When church folks know your son sell dope, should you like it beneath 'em
Like for once, just try to be decent
But I can't, plus them motherfuckers fake, I'm not a believer
What kinda world where they killed my nigga Cigarette
How Lil' Earl get a bullet? Nigga wasn't a threat
Fuck all that cool shit, stay dangerous
Golden rule, if you rep it, then you better bang it, ahh
[Pre-Chorus: Crook Brown]
I'm wit' whatever from the start, nigga, no pressure
I break the necks and pull yo cards, nigga
Whenever I jumped off the porch and niggas asked me where I'm from
I told 'em straight, College motherfuckin' Park, nigga, ayy

[Chorus: Crook Brown]
This a open letter from a trill nigga
This a open letter from a trill nigga
Hit them pussy niggas wit' the steel, nigga (Bow)
All that tough talkin' get you killed, nigga
This a open letter from a trill nigga
This a open letter from a trill nigga
Hit them pussy niggas wit' the steel, nigga (Brrr)
All that tough talkin' get you killed, nigga

[Verse 2: SamTRax]
Uh
We from [?] [1:43], smokin' pistol on the counter
Tryna turn a four and a baby to a fuckin' mountain
Young nigga wit' the ambition
All I needed was a couple kicked doors and the ammunition
If it's a drought and you got it, then I'm on the way
Very first time you hit a lick, feel like the SBA
Is there a heaven for a thug, nigga?
Where I'll be greeted at the gate by all the scammers and the drug dealers, lord
I'm in your spot, you besta up the paper
Make any false move, nigga, you gon' meet your maker
And bitch, shut up all that cryin', it's what come wit' it
Oh you thought it was all shoppin' sprees and Spondivits?
Nah, go get that motherfuckin' work, ho, lord
Or you gon nap up under dirt, ho, God
The game cold and I'm outside
A young thuggin' motherfucker screamin' "Southside"
(Southside, Southside, Southside, Southside
Southside, Southside, Southside, Southside)