This is a song about "1 drop table tags"

I'm modest, and humble

Eat her out, now she's the table

Shout out to you shit talkers at my lunch table

I'm stuck in triangles, looking for my angel

Trying to keep his head up while his eyes are in the bible

It was like balancing a house of cards on a crooked table,

No one knows my struggle, they only see the trouble

I'll still be able to break a motha-fuckin' table

Bring ya soulto tha true, let em know we come through

That lil kid jackin tags, leavin people black and blue.

Count your baby daddy’s now, 2 and a possible

I bled on the bed and then on da table

But i keep that to myself, i never tell and rip the tags.

But i don’t knock you i just blame it on your old head, rats

If i don't make that man there dance

Falls flat on his back, pulls out his tags