This is a song about "Phat gats"

I'm from the tin shacks where mishaps get fixed fast

Stackin' plaques, platinum tracks with crack and gats in hand,

Two hundred years ago we should've known the gats would burst,

I know it's hard but who does god choose to go through it worst

So when i rape a bitch i hold her down and get my best nut

Tell me my rhymes are getting phat and i might want a tummy tuck

The flow cold as a shoulder of a gold diggin hoes

My words are like weapons, gats or poison arrows,

Scripting words, that’s my shit, poking v’s and phat asses kid,

Just a little sprung but don't call me on your period

Blazing gats at flaming fags like british dudes with cigarettes,

Ain't better, you better rebel, smell cheddar and shells