This is a song about "Fighting with my man jord and fucking hoes"

I hate bitches snitches stab them with syringes throw em in ditches and holes fuck hoes/

I get more respect from the motherfuckin' dope manthe grammy's and american music shows

Movin, eyelids low cause my bills too high

Cuz i tweak it good, and hoes can't find dhey man cuz i

Mark my words, better die off fighting/

Get off a key like i can’t sing

I keep writing and keep fighting this fucking curse

Where my soldiers at, no longer drug dealers

And my ex hoes, she pop ex rows

Best believe i'm leaving with more of those

Flapjack, ooh he bring

And blast you with his fucking

"man, why do you keep trying why the fuck are you fighting"

Wear out tracks, let me do my thing, i got 16, for this roscoe thing