This is a song about "Fake nigga s"

Pitchfork doesn't need a plate

All you niggas dead , dead fake

If i should die before i wake

Ur love was always fake

It’s sick and spiteful, 2pac’s twisted grim disciple

To make karma come faster than she normally will

And i'm participatin' in this crazed game of the 2000's,

With my semen and oppressed by my give a fuck less

Hit me up in a couple days, we can try again

Till you scream " what s my what s my name whats name!!!!

The outline which you n****s out dated

Holla at ya boy young roy’s in the kill shit

Then i left the hood, like fuck it don't need the cargo

Deathly desperado, "never rest"s the motto,

Put those fake nigger s to do my labor

Real nigga no pistol to keep to shoot her