This is a song about "Custom"

Walk into my room thinking how to make moves

He was just accostumed to the custom suits/

Why go enclose a dyke gangster, custom manure

She pray to god every night hoping that he'll mature

Afterwards she asks for a custom freestyle flowing

When i write rhymes i go blind and let the lord do his thing

Six hundred sixty-six, leave it for the tip

Iced rims, custom ish, sounding like a fatter whip