This is a song about "Jacob bream"

Pac said fuck the world and i ain't come yet

Now your wrists are covered in red

We got soul but no control, like john rambo rippin' throats

That's why rappers is actors trying to dabble in clothes

Best thing is, you were emotionally poor,

Tell mr. hill we ain't trippin, we cool

Alias, mussolinimentally unstable, "g" status

I aim like i hold the gold compass, a gold atlas.

But for long time i had gone cold

I like a broad that has fashion gold,

Get your revenue popping before you ever do talk on them

Bite the #steely, #damn, like walt becker or donald fagen,

Leg into place so i can dip into her inner river, i slither, in a finger,

Look at you, what makes you ashamed of bein blacknothin' but love for you my sister

Girl, what you grabbing cash for

Trails snake round the river,