This is a song about "Corn"

While he lobs corn on the cob up into his fat fuckin' gob

Then she riding on the topshe about to make it pop

The corn-tops ripe and the old breeze blowin',

Where god at? i need to call him

Call me whatever joe

Is it a corn row or a fro

You couldnt make a belemic puke on a piece of fuckin corn and peanut poop

The owner bout to prosecute, the niggas tell her that she's cute

Amnesty international got bangkok to montauk on lock

Sitting forlorn, treating your dick like corn man you need god

Playing in the corn, wake up call

Mirror mirror on the wall

Wale, more times than not, am not for whom the air waves

Leave yo brains lookin like some mushy corn flakes