This is a song about "Master of homicide crimes but never once fined"

Niggas couldn’t tell if i was dead or alive

Streets are full of grit if you commit crimes

But i need your faith in me, i'm a sucka for love

But once i get the mic it's like i get all kinds of vicious

As well as supper; then i'll rummage through her ruptured cunt

Take my pen once again, never get discouraged

I'm from the tin shacks where mishaps get fixed fast

My rhymes, new york states of minds, lyrical crimes, in fact

In a lyrical homicide

And you're approaching me right

But when i come around her crib, i go in on this chick

When i'm the master of events n' master the mic

It's hard to have american pride when most of your money's made out of them lies

I'll never be the confessor to this assessor of your crimes for life.

It's like i'm an alien who alienates by the herd, so as far as being heard

But there's no pleasure in being the ender of a life that you once treasured