This is a song about "Evidence"

To evidence, those presidents in office know we'll never die,

Shit, caught up in your perfect world, you never heard me cry

Ya ain't killers ya’ll got hundred yard dash guns

Eyes of dead presidents, i plan the evidence,

Well know you got the shit in words, look at evidence,

And i don't do colorful jeans or shiny kicks

It's fucking immaculate, the way your daughter smacking dicks

Rhythm flows straight through my blood, and see that rhythm be spread evidence,

As i sit and think im thinking fuck the president kill him with no evidence

Cry, die, tie, then sigh from relief from bottling up too much grief ever since

And i was getting whipped at home in sixth grade

White streaks on ya face evidence of heart break

And in akron, my niggas they would throw things

We just wipe away the evidence

That god isn't finished with me yeti feel his hand on my brain

No evidence of what dad did to her, she cleaned up the blood stain