This is a song about "Stone hut"

As our dead bodies hit the cold oh brim stone

Paparazzi, magazines: please leave me alone

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

I know i ain’t perfect, i’m out here working for the throne

And this world's mine, but the womb is hers

Lone soldier holds stone boulders on cold shoulders,

Grab him by his collar bone, and throw him down the stairs like im tossin a stone,

Young money, cash money so strong, keep scorin’, i’ma bring it on home

Born alone, work alone, die alone

I know that b**ch won't turn my body to stone

And all these peasant motherfuckers take shots at the throne

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

Tell 'em build a boat like noah

Stone cold bout to go in a coma

Fuck it, momma's proud of her asthmatic thin fuck

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