This is a song about "Mail"

You're wasting space like junk mail and sperm whales,

Bitch no days off and i ain't got no breaks

It's ironic they call me a fresh breath no joke

I'll mail them to your door and send a note

Track and field with the birds, i’m running em like track

Rappers wanna battle me, i have to mail their heads back

With parts of their body through the mail

They keep sayin' whale, but my name wale

I got these bitches brewin' inside of my gold pots

Look at what hell got, mail from fish scale docks