This is a song about "Air"

You’re the plastic, i’m the passion and the magic in the air

To get it in, any minute, i'll be hit with a stare

Yessir... momma looking puerto rican and she got the best hair

She showed no lover's care, mauled like she was just cuttin' air.

Until all the air bubbles have popped.

Cause my mother let me do what i want

From out of nowhere

I'm running out of air

When the depth chart came, there was no me there

Creepin up on you fell me,cold air.

Spinning like my many rims through the air,

No medal here, i'm well aware

Ain't no skipper but all my bitches is ginger hair

Some sort of sensual magic can crackle through the air

A deadly storm concoction is formed from cold hearts and hot air

A bunch of temptation facing when your wife ain’t there