This is a song about "Fuckin bitches money and cars"

Two big faces on my wrist, boy i got a couple those

They talk about the flash clothes, cars, money, cash hoes,

The big bad wolf to me you're just a minor fox

With terms of release, bitches, money and yachts

Yeah, fancy cars, big bodies and fresh kicks

Rich, 2pac and the click, smokin' blunts, loadin' clips

This ain't fuckin algebra! grab that canister of money and get some new stamina/

Multisyllabic and internal rhymes about conscious topics, creating the

Surrounded by the irony of living in the city

Get that money and my fuckin homies plotting on me

You'll be missing work, and switching lanes, and hitting cars,

Its way different ma you see em passin' out bars

Lotta rapper thugs talking bout bitches, money trees, and drugs

That mean im overflowin all you rappin niggas in cups

Right back on my feet, i swear i'd never leave

Neighbours washing cars and reading fucking magazines.