This is a song about "Stars"

Now my watch fruity colors like trix in a box

Even though in nola we either ball or give rhyme stars,

Watching for hollow-tip shots

Imma look at the stars,

Sitting in the hay while i'm watching all the stars

Took a shot, tired of runnin from the niggas and the cops

When bret hart meet brett farve

I keep my gaze glanced on stars

I leave em frettin more than rock stars

Forearm with my gang name, that's an old carve

That proud feeling we get knowin' that pussy is ours

I grew up in new orleans, ball players and rhyme stars,

What is hittin' for

You trap stars, i’m rhodes scholar

Let's roll a j and pretend we in love

Stars become fiction, bars become prisms