This is a song about "Fenix the douchbag"

She prayed on me passing that bar

Down the street to the car,

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

Metaphor, chilling with better whores

Or 5'2" hoopers in light shoes

Saw the bombs on the news

The good comes with the bad, the bad with the ugly

Funny how money, chains and whips make me feel free

So call the coroner or the mortician for the the

They gotta like a nigga, call me obama

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

Throw him off the banister, shoot him on camera

Here's the answer and the antidote:

It's ironic they call me a fresh breath no joke