This is a song about "My hitta"

No rubber sole, hardwood bastard

My shirt, purple label my shirt

Grab my knife and my gun

A real wonder woman

My rhymes propellers, words my instrument

8 in the morning when that street clock bust

You make a nigga sing songs nice

See my pain through my eyes,

My streaks my testament.

Im happier when high and drunk

This is my original, my validation

Got a sweet sixteen and they deadlier than sin

Pay a hitta to have a nigga disfigured,

Then i redecorated, that mean my tables turned

My words are my rhythm

Car seats got screens in them