This is a song about "Blob"

Shut the fuck up little cabbage-patch activists, class slackers,

The gangsters are scared of upsetting they industry masters

And she throws up whatever she eats

Nate and cloud the 2 new elites

I give em a script, you bitch nigga's my children

Southern comfort food, mashed potatoes, fried chicken,

Put that data in the cloud like that acid rain

I am not tina, buddy, do not give my window pain

So, why don't you fucking wipe that stupid look on your face

Higher than the milky way as i reside in outer space

And modify your opinion

Crispy, crispy chicken.

I got my finger on the mothafuckin' pistol

In this chicken scratch i scribble and doodle

Mama bills piling up, her son don't got no time to ball

Living in this bag of meat standing 6 foot tall