This is a song about "Stacks of mon"

They make their livin off crazed addictions with stacks of cash it's too much to count, shit

Still standin' and in love with my prideheard frivolous beats, we past that

This is my high rap, you cant even touch my high stacks.

It’s a party in my pants and you invited with all that dance

When i cock the beam back, i'm aiming for supreme hats

Now i'm feeling like huell sleeping on fat stacks

Back to the flashbacks blowing stacks

Check my bank account, got racks on racks

Like mitt, rom-ney, with his fuck-ing dumb, mon-ey.

Light girls if it's black they attract to usually

George bush got some nerve, fuck a war, we trying to serve

My racks was really stacks of novels and rap posters

And danced around the house in all-over print panties

I can't believe it, you're out here making stacks of cheese