This is a song about "Fuck wits"

Fuck, fuck-fuck, can't take the stress

I'm hoping i confess

I ain't tryna diss you

Fuck reppin red fuck reppin blue,

Fuck that - and fuck you too!

I'm hoping that this letter reaches you

Dead at thirteen cause he yearned to bangsniffed a lot of flowers, but how could i cry

Your wits are shit, keep talking and i'll take this here drill bit and shove it in your eye,

She likes the way it hits her lips

Fuck your bars, fuck your demons,

I'm with your girlfriend eating chips

In this known art of wits

My team getting digits

Tryna battle wit no wits