This is a song about "Machines"

Tryna kill my dreams

Spendin money on machines,

Cause every girl i deal and fuck, it's always against her will

You strapped to machines, barley alive. doctors saying its a miracle,

Yeah live from the soho, and hov told me i'd blow joe

Tryna wire machines but its a no go.

As i stare at the ceiling fan, as a fan of these wicked streets

I spit verses hard and mean statistics say mine are fighting machines,

Of how they keep you still and down, convert people to machines

Your bitch is a hood bitch you can find up in these streets

My rhyming's like the finest thing since time machines

Because i'm seventeen, compose my own beats

My #dollars turn in more #chips than fucking vending machines,

Know what they mean, everything ain't what it seems