This is a song about "Supply"

Nowadays you look empty, ya love runnin on a low supply

And niggas slippin if they think the fucking grip is a lie

I could spend a whole damn advance on some kicks and some pants son

Supply an entire island of flies, or a botanical garden

We the 93 chicago bulls baby

The fiends supply the shady

Automatic possessing with intent to supply

Shit, caught up in your perfect world, you never heard me cry

Yo those dealers near your house don't supply no heat,

Nigga fuck you cracker, i put you six feet

I leave most motherfuckers with suppressed lungs running out of air supply,

Dead at thirteen cause he yearned to bangsniffed a lot of flowers, but how could i cry

This isn't a diss, this is just a reply to hip-hop's low supply/

Getting high, see the demons in my eyes, before i die

Cause it'll never be the same hereso i wipe away the tears

But i've got time to invest to supply some lyrical complex