This is a song about "Dora the explorer"

In the field of the damned, the only sentries are the crows.

The odd niggas are beginning to spill these pink hoes

The replacement of the word "mother"

You wear a shirt, my records sell yes sir

We all the same the blacks the whites the something in between

If i don’t make it, then somebody tell my son screen

You looking like dora the explorer

And then along came the wrong man for her

Alcohol and booty calls

The pain, the loss, the grief, the cross.

Put the grants in the safe, 'cause we spending the jacksons, the

I know i'm not the only bastard in america

So call the coroner or the mortician for the the

All my shit designeri fucked your bitch in versace, nigga