This is a song about "Proper shit"

You send me beats via email, i'mma send them back in a hearse

He'll lack the proper fiber to not be wearing any diapers

Than life, i'm the fucking shit

The dead society of a poet

You lack proper means of comparison,

But i don't trust anybody, yeah no one

The proper noun to explain my offer now is lost as my outer sound

Pardon my absence, i'm actually far out of town wit a pound

Aint this shit easy, talkin big shit

Sippy cup full of whip creamed hot chocolate

I remember when i used to bust a mack with my eyes closed

You proper stopping motion sloppy slow and awfully old

Don't make me shoot up this place with light sabers and guns

When the planets meet proper conditions and positions,

My father's dead, well i don't know, we'll never fucking meet

This the proper way to chew a rapper receipt