This is a song about "Bars ours cars stars top crop"

I fucking hate this job

Maybe if i just burn this crop

Imma look at the stars,

Like i'm only serving 20 rocks

The beggars can't borrow, the record sales drop

For some nice hookers, the cream of the crop

And finally, everyone got their own problems

Stars become fiction, bars become prisms

The city streets - bars, clubbing and cars rushing at sickly speeds

On award tour, on excursions, i'm a virgin of swap meets

A hell of motherfucking road blocks

While in the distance i hear passing cars

I need a blimp to say the worlds ours

Um tom frazier, new lebron haters