This is a song about "Stone hut"

Better than college, after that, students home

But i know i'm not professional, nothing's set in stone

I see the addict, the alcoholic with golden flask out cold,

Philosopher's stone made into the cylinder turning the rockets to gold,

I can hear the bells ringing off the nice dream truck

You're the tree that's been cut, no leaves or fruits in the hut

I got some sinners to collect, their fates are carved in stone.

Look, she love me from them poems, and them songs, in my zone

I'm taking women to heaven and then i take em home

You a game hater, and you call yourself a rolling stone,

Don’t let it drift away like a feather and i’m home, home, home

But i am known to be blown, like a clone or a drone made of stone

The streets in need of a king, you can tell 'em i’m home

As our dead bodies hit the cold oh brim stone

I jive like bone

Gold plate wit dat rine stone