This is a song about "Being a sick rhymer"

To being a being and beating the back roads and being it

I'm trying to get you hot and wet you know jacuzzi that shit

And certain death for us ghetto bastardswhat can we do when we're arrested, but open fire

I show many gimmicks yeah, but im a mystical rhymer, call me a big timer,

Of course a lame gone make you sick

Small, but you talkin' big

I'm feelin' chris childs, you lookin' like kobe bryant jaw

Im sick of fucking being skint for draw

I can do that to a nigga and make a pool on her

A struggling writer, who's can't be shit as a rhymer/

Sick twisted prick, sick sadistic son of a biscuit

Sixty-two, without no tint; missing roof on my new shit

Might as well get it off yo’ chest

A childhood being suppressed,

Who endorse them, should pull the plug and stick a fork in them

It's like being in a breadbox, but only being a crumb