This is a song about "Making money till the day we dead"

Then i'mma throw this money while you do it with no hands

Till the day i die i'm running laps around these wiretaps

So, why don't you fucking wipe that stupid look on your face

Countin money all day and we smoke dat bomb haze,

We think making a bunch of money, is what it means to succeed,

See, the luxury that we accustomed to, i take a smut to eat

Box logo on my muthafuckin' chest

But till that day comes, we wont puff or digest

Or of the innocent dead we predicted

That's motivation, my people living wicked

From curb surfingwe working the industry

Compared to "them" you're making baby money

As i take you through a ghetto nigga's lullaby

Raised in a masacre, im a basterd till the day i die

Guess it's something like your girl, nigga it ain't came yet

Got overun by the youngster gang, but i glock till they dead/