This is a song about "Sixth grade"

And maybe one day his kids, something that he'll live for

Arms seller of high grade like a piff dispenser

I got weed, hash; when i breeze past, breathe fast

Cause you can't even rap in the fourth grade band

I swear these off rhyme bums are full of hate

Still rapping like i'm in 2nd grade

I make music for a reason, didn't vote obama

But don't let rappad lie with a falsely given grade a,

That they probably be in the closet of old folks

A grade could be reduced, just take em as bad jokes.

You're in the kitchen trying to fix us a hot plate

And a fist full of money give it to a fifth grade

So no im blazing a biff of the dam grade haze

So, why don't you fucking wipe that stupid look on your face

Just like this kush grade-a, and matching rolling tray

Real nigga shit i gotta make it one day