This is a song about "Old finnish people with things on their heads"

You're sure to catch her witcha one day boy

Turn the hate on, eyes on me with their kiddie coy

But the fifteen credits had a nigga off track

Rappers wanna battle me, i have to mail their heads back

So rest your weary heart

The feds got- their heads chopped,

Along with my other trophy heads

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

People with no identity, aren't manifesting their destiny

Now you stuck up in my mothafucking basement all bloody

We've just never discussed what's on in our heads

Probably seen meaner bars probably in the feds

I'm about about to send their heads spinning

Ricky is sitting, baba was sitting

Leave with their heads in a nap sack

I promise i'mma call you back