This is a song about "O person shall be held to answer for a capital or otherwise infamous crime unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury except in cases arising in the land or naval forces or in the militia when in actual service in time of war or public danger n"

But if you're not dying don't fucking bother to call me back, i'm sleep

Writing verses can be a freestyle or something written in a week

I ain't looking in her eyes but her face

Or when flying down a panel in some hi-top jays

Or just to stay under a ceilin' in the case of the ghetto

Got my carry-on but really wish i had a pound with me though

Or be able to write in any of the cyphers

Yeah, uh, where's the love for the sixteen writers

Those privileged fucks got to learn that we ain't taking no shit

I'm hopping in the game without a manual or starter kit

Or that you picked up the way to be real in somewhere tv-land along the way?

But put it in slow-mo, i don't want to bust the tape yet, press play

Whether its a bong or a joint ill be draining it of contents, like im in the projects,

I'm forsaken again, rhymes elatin' ta' ten, statin' that i'm hatin' the bends,

And fleeing the sceneon rufus, my evil walrus, bitch

Kick their ass to the curb or throw em in a ditch,