Corner Boys’ Testament | Future & 21 Savage Style Flow | Raw Southern Street Rap

“Corner Boys’ Testament” is a raw, cinematic trap confessional similar to Future / 21 Savage style street hip-hop — heavy, grim, and unfiltered. The production is dark and suffocating.

This is pure street storytelling — trauma, survival, corner politics, and the generational scars of the block — delivered with ruthless imagery and a heavyweight Southern cadence.

FULL LYRICS:

(Yeah…)
(Southside…)
(Rest in pieces…)

Born where the chalk lines hug the curb,
mama’s prayers echo off the projects, unheard.
Corner boys graduate from jump ropes to jump outs,
ten-speeds to TEC-9s, childhood burnt out.
Pyrex visions in a cracked rear-view,
every fiend a ghost, every gram a soul they drew.
We don’t dream here, we just reload,
sleep with one eye and the safety off, code.
Rival tags bloom like tumors on the bricks,
every tag a tombstone, every tomb a statistic.
I seen a kid fold like a lawn chair,
.45 spoke, left his thoughts spilled in the night air.
No ambulance, just ambulatory scars,
we mourn with liquor poured onto leaking cars.
Dope stuffed in teddy bears for the kindergarten raid,
innocence died the day the first pack got laid.

(Shh… hear that?)*

That’s death joggin’ in Timbs,
heartbeat sync’d to the drums of our sins.

We the kings of the curb, crown made of crack vials,
throne is a milk crate, kingdom runs for miles.
Bullets rain, we dance in the hurricane,
every corner a throne, every block a chain.
(Bow down!)
(Rest in pieces!)
(Southside!)
We don’t pray for peace, we prey on the weak,
corner boys’ war, forever repeat.

I sold to my teacher, he taught me the metric,
now he a customer, life’s ironic—pathetic.
Glocks in backpacks next to notebooks of math,
division problems solved with a draco’s wrath.
Little homie twelve, already a lookout,
eyes wide, but the innocence phased out.
I gave him his first burner, felt like a rite,
told him “Aim for the chest, forget the flashlight.”
Mama cry blood when the morgue calls,
we just pour another pint, let the pain dissolve.
Rival crew caught slipping at the stop sign,
forty shots, forty sins, everybody flatline.
No witnesses except the moon and the rats,
even God don’t look when the corner combat.
I stash my guilt in a Ziploc, bury it deep,
next to the rocks and the corpse of my sleep.

I still see his face in the rear-view glass,
froze mid-scream when the slug went past.
If tears could rewind, I’d flood the block,
but tears just salt the wound, no way to stop.

We the kings of the curb, crown made of crack vials,
throne is a milk crate, kingdom runs for miles.
Bullets rain, we dance in the hurricane,
every corner a throne, every block a chain.
(Bow down!)
(Rest in pieces!)
(Southside!)
We don’t pray for peace, we prey on the weak,
corner boys’ war, forever repeat.

(Brrrrrrat!)
(Yeah!)

I seen the reaper wear Jordans and gold chains,
he don’t ride a pale horse, he drive a stolen Range.
We greet him with a nod, like an old friend,
every handshake leaves another soul spent.
Fiends OD on the same stoop they born,
cycle so tight, the umbilical cord still warm.
I tattoo tally marks for every soul I took,
ink mixed with gunpowder, skin like a crime book.
Cops circle like vultures, but we the prey,
they raid us at dawn, still we back by the day.
I bled in the same gutter my father died in,
his ghost whisper “Son, keep the brass flying.”
No exit wound for the trauma, it stays,
a hollow-point memory that never decays.

(Yeah…)
(Corner boys’ testament…)
(Written in chalk, blood, and crack dust…)
(No graves, just gutters…)
(Southside, forever…)

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