This is a song about "Make"

I feel good, i look great

But when we scrap you gon make

Pitchfork doesn't need a plate

Stored in his mind to make,

I surely make it fast and make their ass do the dash

I welcome with my handsand the red sun sinks at last

Guess what they got a choice to make

All dem niggas gonna hate

Or maybe the right choice you'd make

Those are not my dreams, i'll be straight

I'm make this choppa spit and make it come out her nose

I’m sayin’ that i know, revealing them most

Yeah this new town cannot make

Way too much right here is at stake

Making his own fucking beats, covers, videos and all that shit

I make elevating music, you make elevator music