This is a song about "Degree maps"

Fuck it bouta hit em' with the third degree

Folarin be ballin for all yall to see

Sb nike's, with the grey box

I have no killer degree, cause

Get off rap pad and get a degree

Hail mary nigga, run quick see

Iller than hundred n eight degree fever ripping emcees liver

All this flow that i give em, i live by the code and i'll leave her

Luckily i'm a master of dispatchin', got a "send them to the pound" degree

B.i.g. said it; so i entertain like cedricstandin on the trunk roof top unit city

I was watching, remote pleaseniggas want what they can't have

Death maps, in a lion's sense, alliances, are made by riff-raff,

Hammer-hat flyer than a bag of bats

New batch to patch, back to making maps

Leave you lost in this jungle giving none of you maps

They got me goin mad, i'm knockin busters on they backs