This is a song about "A son"

No one in comparison, i got a hun in paris son.

I'm glad pushin' that envelope, it's mad open

That will hit you as hard as a bison son,

I wonder why we take from our women

It seems that lifes a rush, an its just me an my son

It's ironic cause i always hear you talking about one

We are the hope of the culture, they supposed to listen

Shrine in a timely fashion never been cought ain't tryna brag son

Knowing they gotta a daughter or a son

You just working with the scraps you was given

Never letting go, although sometimes i slip

Sick twisted prick, sick sadistic son of a biscuit