This is a song about "Jars of crafts"

Furniture made of the flesh of my foes

2 v's in the street, blowing trees with hoes

Pocket racked up all big faces

Of which im not exactly proud of,

Still standin' and in love with my prideheard frivolous beats, we past that

A little more of me through generation of a debate of hatred

Thats my surroundings in compton, have common sense

Thoughts of us of everything of everyone's debts

Got her going down, no teeth

Top of my pile of bodies

Of the book of your life

What we gotta do to survive

Witnessing what i did for d.c. though

Return of the king of flow

Ahead of his years, ahead of his time,

For a fucking shrink, sheesh, i already got mine