This is a song about "Sick of the of friendship"

Ironic since my drive increased, my driver see the profit

Stirring up a crock of it, the opposite of poppin' sick shit,

Sick of nothing to do, but gun buckin the two

The 40 if i cop bottles, we can't believe you

Yeah see i let my nigga hit that

I'm sick of the noise, sick of the bullshit,

Control our mental states, settle down and set it straight

Sick of the bait, sick of falling through the gaps in the grate!

The final war of the whack and sick

Make room for the groom married to his music

Style is patent, the measures is drastic

With the flick of my wrist syphilis spitting it's sick