This is a song about "Hittin"

80 holes in your shirt, there: your own jamaican clothes

And have you screaming like rnb singers who hittin' high notes

Think you're hittin harder but your shit is just a bitch slap

So if he die, and came back, would he try to save rap

Caught up and slipping for fearing a mcdonald’s position

Wild and out bad trippin', that's the body i been hittin'

And the money that my momma spent on rent and clothes

And have you screaming like rnb singers who hittin' high notes

I don't do dishes but i throw away your plates

Uncle tom's hittin the rock that i'm weighing on scales

They're slittin' their wrists, missiles hit, hittin' the picket fence,

Everybody coming home deserve a white benz

They say "black is beautiful," but ask them beautiful

Apb called for killin two pigs in the field, hittin a double