This is a song about "Sort"

Smoking weed, inhaling illegal chemicals, looking and hoping for some sort of relief,

Doin twenty to life in san quentingettin calls from my nigga mike tyson, ain't nuttin nice

Gotta be a way to sort the operation.

Mixed feelings cause now all the chicks feeling him

Some sort of sensual magic can crackle through the air

And your son was born with cancer and he live in urgent care

What up girl, tell me how you been

Thought of, cuz it's sort of...an addiction,

These hoes thuggin, these nigga's bitches don’t know the difference

Suddenly i see a structure of some sort... blood and sweat drips...

Offered me sort of a realization,

I still keep it indie, y'all worried the dow slim

She'll do anything for me, nothing but hits

Aboard with swords n' forts but no torch to sort regions

That i don't hate myself in any sort of way

Thinkin' why it's not south beach everyday