This is a song about "Crispy crunchy peanut buttery backwoods"

Top ranked, number one my son

Crispy, crispy chicken.

Khakis pressed, nike shoes crispy and fresh laced, so i guess it ain't

Of the very same baby that the virgin mary raised

Daddy was a kingpin, a couple milli buried

It's buttery as jack frost under some miami heat

Tell the homies i'm in heaven and they ain't got hoods

Someone go tell who ever it is to get the backwoods

In my bread and peanut butter you're the jelly in between

I got a dollar and a dream, real niggas on my team

Particularly, these bitches that's inner ugly and outer pretty

We're barely making dollars at our peanut jobs, close to me,

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

And i have forsaken my marriage, now she gon take me for loot

Cause you be lookin fatter from eatin too many peanut butter pancakes

Nothing's gonna compare to the sound in the morning which he wakes.