This is a song about "Cuban missile crisis and fat hoones"

Only built 4 cuban linx, paid in full, and liquor swords,

Make your bitches' therapist ask for dental records

You no good like a stripper with a "a" cup

You own and hide it under ya fat stomach

We don't ever make love

From this identity crisis.......

Faces laced and barren with hate, they carry fat baggage

Ore voir to the doubters, and a punt is every challenge

I smoke a fat pound of grass and fall on my ass

But i let off everything i have

In a rise from my crisis

I think found where your mind was

Fat bowels of tree deep, and its too loud to hear

Alonzo, my condo cost three mil', this shit real