This is a song about "Scraps"

When timbo is in the party, everybody put up they hands

Blare recorders with static scraps but don't blame the orders when the matic taps.

I could give a fuck as long as there’s something that’s behind of her

Writing off scraps of the paper, know i might not make raps that are major

Then bossip for gossip, ybf in concrete

Use to get the bone scraps now i get the good meat

And dj's play my records cause i make the needles dance

Searched endlessly to find a style that dispersed my scraps

Mic defibrillator give you haters heart attacks in advance

Help out a friend who's living with the rats and eating scraps

Help out a friend who's living with the rats and eating scraps

They say hip-hop's dead, i believe it's just the fans

All i see is don’t change, don’t switch up your style

Until all that's left is scraps, all bloody and dire