This is a song about "Jars of crafts"

There ain't no genie jars to grant what your petty wishes are

We can count the stars on the hood in your father's car

Homie will never love her, although he'll probably have a fit

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

He carried weight like a mack truckgonna bust on some playa haters

Illusion of days of elysium fields full of gladiators

Half my peers, they're stretched for years

Out of this coviction of feelings

Of which im not exactly proud of,

Trying to get back to this thing called love

Got the eye of tiger, spit of cobra, form of a dragon

Telling me shutup, i’m leaving youthe reason you ain’t even got one

Couple of shots and a glass of wine.

Private plane, my seat recline

Take her back to where i live

Of the book of your life