This is a song about "Shooting up the clocks"

Grew up in the jungle where it's killers at war

Takes one to the back, gets up but their shooting more!

The ball in my fingers. i be shooting threes outside all day with my hittas and i

Just thanking the holy fatherhe made a star and shita youngin still ain't die

Fuckin' up my gold pots

Back when we was shooting up cops

Now of days people will be shooting,

And this will be the song that we sing

Telling me shutup, i’m leaving youthe reason you ain’t even got one

Yal would drop these theories to the cement and he'll still be shooting heroin

Figure eight clocks, see the hourglasses stopped

Banker banker, dealership, and the rim shop

Leasin' a vehicle quick enough to see people that don't even exist yet

"they aren't suiting" he said, missing shots for the stars like he's shooting for bed

Shooting ink upon the looseleaf like a lazer

Real nigga no pistol to keep to shoot her