This is a song about "Fake shoes"

The fittest crew like a pair of nike jordan tennis shoes,

Rollin' down the street, smokin' indo, sippin' on gin and juice

When they would be the same with a day in my shoes,

You would think that i had a match for a tooth

Like the swoosh on my shoes

Kill the jungle let the cats loose

My shoes black, slater back/

Make the fingers snap

Is written in our souls, africa

Shoes, louis, prada, groupie blah blah

My kostons are the reason that you tossed your wrinkly leather shoes

I'ma try to rhyme and get through, i'm documenting the truth

Crockadillys are the shoes for me

They say nothings ever free

Pitchfork doesn't need a plate

All you niggas dead , dead fake