This is a song about "Four grams"

And tell the doc you'd be dead at four

And you ain't gotta go to war

Smash into your four-by-four door ford in a honda accord,

Inspired by that ganja most 9-to-5ers just can't afford

1 blunt to roll 2 grams to put in it

You, you, you have to pay for that

I bring the tension in bricks, your raised it up a couple grams,

When i die tell them to turn my coffin to stretch benz

And my brains travel like yung berg jewels

Ever since my grams got old she's been a bit nuts

All my shit designeri fucked your bitch in versace, nigga

No more cutting grams, and wrapping grands up in rubberbands, i'm a

Please correct me, stretch marks

Four more tarts playing harps