This is a song about "Make poop"

With a fistfull of poop,

Pockets probably like fried food

I get my paper, y'all just hate

There’s money to make

Like poop smeared on the walls

Alcohol and booty calls

That i'mma pay for with dimes, nickels and quarters and shit

I make elevating music, you make elevator music

Of course they all hate

Yeah this new town cannot make

You fucking dead bitch chips, i'm on my fifth bag with your bitch ass

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

Guess what they got a choice to make

The proverbial lemonade that i made