This is a song about "Creole"

Room service, the moon been worthless once apparent to your aura

And eventho tha tints locced, i'm rollin in de honda/

Slick rick, de la soul, and rakim spit sicker,

I gotta bounce, i don’t call her

Fakes try to put me on de-frost, they be glossed,

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

To him, nothing is funnymind set on one thing, making his money

Give me the mic, my de-vice, that i utilise, write these lines, that'll be

Concha de tu madre bitch don't touch my fuckin mota

Now tomorrow you sober wishing you ordered a soda

Because that booty mad thick behind your juicy ass lips

Wish i get i could produced by scoop de-ville, no need to take pills

No disrespecting baby, just tryna make you smile

That i couldn't leave even semi-free on cinco de mile*