This is a song about "Death dreams"

Pack it up thirty minutes to the jet leaves

I’m peeling wigs, killing pigs in my dreams

As i stare at the ceiling fan, as a fan of these wicked streets

No responsibilities only focused on my dreams

Taking over all my dreams

I'm why baby mamas leave

They want me unemployed, until i hit the streets

Bury me while i try producing my dreams

Finish line with the tire marks

Both dreams got different parts

I rap supreme no need for dreams

So fuck it, i'm platinum in the streets

Five shots she ready to leave

Get a good job, follow your dreams

Grow older, closer to death.

I'm godbless, i'm success so fuck stress