This is a song about "Calls"

Keep it on the low, never kiss and tell

The mother of these feelings calls herself dispair,

You in the basement, i'm on the roof again

He calls it art when he arranges them

I'm just ridin i done put a thousand miles on my body

I ignore the calls for blasphamy, pushing on my corrupted qi.

Oh shit reverse the hearse , the curse of eazy coming back slowly and it lurch,

It calls for separation of the federal state and church,

Immature that's what everyone's calls me,

They giving me pounds and thats of course getting money

Face down, ass up, ain't none of my bitches planking though

Your phone's cocked, but i've blocked your calls to triple o

My gun your scars, your wrist your calls

Posters on the wall, posted on my balls