This is a song about "Jars of crafts"

Of the book of your life

We hustle to survive

O.f. is the coldest thing, and i'm the fuckin' general

Defendants of a meddle, restless full of potential

Oh, i was raised by the stop sign

Ahead of his years, ahead of his time,

How high? nigga, higher than the kites they fly

Of that gangja from the shores of shanghai

Thoughts of us of everything of everyone's debts

Odd future leaving even niggas in past tense

Illusion of days of elysium fields full of gladiators

You send me beats via email, i'mma send them back in a hearse

Coconuts ciroc where puff at, never fall in love, don't cuff that

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

Niggas talk with limited service

Raybands...hide the face of,