This is a song about "Fists of stone"

Yeah, he blowing up your cell phone

Clack, clack, clack, like bullets hitting stone

For real my fists are made of steal

East coast, still them w's just raised up for real

Walk out on that note, leave standin frozen like madussa to stone.

And all these peasant motherfuckers take shots at the throne

Ears forming vapor, ya fists closed stiff and the color of blizzards

And ain't it shameful, how niggas blame hoes for givin' birth

I'm throwing them rocks back, with the fury of bullets

I was hitting your mistress with my fidgeting thick fists

Put my number in your phone

Victims name engraved on marble stone

I'm through trial, no more smiles, for a couple years

Holding up stone boulders on both of these cold shoulders,

Uppity bitches, handling business

Now i’m gonna need all you to pump your fists