This is a song about "Peice of shit fatha"

Im made of just rap no quire shit.

You, you, you have to pay for that

Of a gun,but that's everyday shit here

But still homey keep it real, how does it feel

Tired of all the waitin' shit, and tired of all the hatin' shit

Cause i’ve been counting all this dirty paper for a minute

Shout out chrissy, rozay and all that

You could chuck all of his shit

Of that funky, chunky, smelly green shit.

It ain't my place to say and i hear all that

The dead society of a poet

Cause i tend to talk, alot of shit

Aye jay, 8 grand skins gonna take that

...mist of rap...whatever, it don't matter, shit