This is a song about "Mail"

I got these bitches brewin' inside of my gold pots

Look at what hell got, mail from fish scale docks

And i don't take these bitches out, i make pajama dates

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

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

Wocky, she's a dancer, walkie-talkie ace for back up like fag

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

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

With parts of their body through the mail

Pink toenails tail like a beached whale