This is a song about "Cars and mon"

I don't care about the nice cars and shoes with the leather,

Fed her acid now the duct tape quacks back at her

And it is to drive in all these fancy cars

Slangin' rocks with your glocks put this tape in your box

In my room, redefinin' the meanin' of black holes

They talk about the foreign cars, bitches, and the finest clothes,

Its way different ma you see em passin' out bars

Keep it real and don't sell out for all the paper and the cars,

You gon' miss a good thing, end up bitter alone

Growin out my dreads, i'm bob marley mon

But that was way before i made the dough and met the game

Thinkin you're so good cause you got money, cars, and fame,

"contemplate", i wrote about her

And i park cars i don't pay for the meter,

"holy shit wow look at them gigantic racks my mon!"

And all these peasant motherfuckers take shots at the throne