This is a song about "Eight"

The rest is in my stomach, that's including your breast

The wealthy are top two, upper middle class is eight percent,

I swear these off rhyme bums are full of hate

Flash forwards then back to him in seventy eight,

Killa i roller cheese blazed, high as fuck and feelin' great

They giggle as he finishes off his delicate meal made of eight.

Leaving him eight hundred and forty pounds heavy,

A single mother with a problem child, daddy free

I take home billions and pay my workers eight bucks an hour,

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

I'd rather you tell me to hit you later

Eight full rounds of birthdays, a first grader

When i saw that 28 to put me in and out of state

"here's my address, meet you at my place at eight"

You say the art's dying, nah brother buy an album, the plan

I was only eight when mamma had to move to amsterdam