This is a song about "Chores"

Dad wasn't around -- my father figure was too short

Do my chores... before i explore your intestines with a fork.

Black fours red drop head doors

But i'm never doin chores

Slave to do all the chores / eleven years old and contemplating

And i have to say that music keeps me here, by far, the main thing

Pull up on a stark with enough white to kill a horse

Said no child about his chores, with a quick force,

With hi-tek on the score, once more, of course

Get on your knees bitch and do all your chores

And victory tastes sweet, even when the enemy can throw salt

Now i never did chores but of course my parents divorced,

They've threats with time and court and chores

Ironic cause your lipstick is red, of course

Bandana p, blow thirds, the 4 take you on all fours

Seeping thc from the pores, i ignore, the rules the chores