This is a song about "My mamma"

Both- baby you'll make my, my, my, my dream come true-----------

'n' they don’t make me laugh or even cook like you

My leisure, my pleasure, my light, my love, my measure

Real nigga no pistol to keep to shoot her

But i'd just rather 2-step, like my first steps

My wondrous success bombs my regrets

I was only eight when mamma had to move to amsterdam

Killa! this the ghetto soap opera right here man

And you are you too, but bitch i'm three

These my rhymes and my story

Leave your running to your mamma,

Not dc, this whole fuckin' genre

And beside any implied pride applied, we'll always confide, in you mamma

Hey guys its me atari and i got 7800 honies in my ca

That is my wish, my fantasy.

I reel them in, goadomes on see