This is a song about "Clayton homes"

Two big faces on my wrist, boy i got a couple those

I remember shotguns and modest working class homes,

Figure this out, the king of the south, i'm poppin' bones from shotgun homes,

I be staying at the roosevelt more than marilyn goes

Make their feets get wet and funky up in they under arms

I'll probably re-visit those old shotgun homes and trailer parks,

Stoned with his friends while throwing shit at the neighbours homes

Fans catch us on animal planet, tracking hoes

To dual-earner comfortable households in suburban homes,

Best stay away when the door closed, i show up with four hoes

I'll put you in your place, and i don't even sell homes

Ever wonder exactly where the sun goes

Because now a nigga hot enough to fuck with one of satan' hoes

Without choice or hope to voice our own noiseless mope of far away homes

This is for the kids who live in ghettoes and their broken homes,

Heneesee, makes me think my enemy is getting close