This is a song about "Loss of a son"

I'm the bastard son of a

P stand for pacqiauo nigga

I'm grand theft auto, racketeering, larceny, conspiracy, murder one

That you cant beat me, go ask your mum, to buy you a pair of these skills, son

Until your lungs are compressed from a loss of breath of me impressing you//

And what remains from a twelve gauge to the brainarguements with my boo is true

Little kids are at a loss

And i can't help but stare, cause

Lord knows that four door fit eight women

Two thousand one born a son of a gun

Shit, come down, its not that much of a suprise son!

Forever in debt to the lord for he's given

Loss of time for play-doh; i'm steady spending more pesos

The odd niggas are beginning to spill these pink hoes