This is a song about "Pantry home"

Hardly thinking of the girl at home,

Real street nigga, ain’t no clone

Hit towns with coke, a .45 blue as chrome

A boy who feels his home, just ain't his home

So beat me to the bone

And i'ma call it my home

Two kids, wide hips, found something in her we didn't see

I'm at home in your pantry, your shits fine it's just dandy

Asshole flowers, going home

You left your nigga on his own

Anti-violent...stylin, lyrically inclined and

Into home runs, while you run home shook and rattled

Little latasha sho' grown

They're telling you too go home

Simple bar spitting then going home

Drink whatever's left, kill the pussy, tombstone