This is a song about "Jars of crafts"

In time we learned to live a life of crime

Ahead of his years, ahead of his time,

Of that gangja from the shores of shanghai

I swear the pen right across from hell, i can't cry

Pocket racked up all big faces

Of potential cases

Looking at the sky, hoping a light would shine

Couple of shots and a glass of wine.

Your yard, full of pieces of lard

Like a small garage in your backyard

I reel them in, goadomes on see

Thoughts of immortality

Jars upon jars, but yet no jam for the bread.

First letter says motherfucker you're dead

Furniture made of the flesh of my foes

And yeah we up in stadium, quarterbacking hoes