This is a song about "Shit at cod"

Until she figured out that she don't really like to bang cock

'cause weavin' facades is as easy as lobs of feed to the cod

And, that shit you spitting isn't real at all

Hands up, throw me up against the wall

So now you can mourn for your fam while im back home playing cod ghosts all day,

The social workers here everydaynow brenda's gotta make her own way

But shit it's all mine, at all times

And i'm on you rapper's ass like brake lights

Don’t wanna have me then somebody will

Shout out to you shit talkers at my lunch table

I step up in the spot, they get to working hard

Or attempt to at least shit at least i got some heart

Leave all they clothes on, baby this ain't so hard

On they grown man shit still standing at a park

Is you a fiend now, nigga? catch a gleamed bullet

Look at all this money, ain't that some shit