This is a song about "Talk to the hand"

Either i'm cocking the four or go to the door and slick talk

Brooklyn boy get plenty love, on the turnpike with my philly broad

I'll be the last to hear you talk,

Shit don't stopcuz i can make that ass drop

You didn't even talk to me on the phone

So is dr. j and moses malone

In my drawsring, ring, ring

19. put a hand to the ceiling,

When they give the grammy in my hand.

K'naan and wale got money in the bank

They aren't the kind of people i like to talk to,

'n' they don’t make me laugh or even cook like you

Rapping that gabbage, attracting maggots

I don’t go to work, i talk to the kids

Hand to hand in the cold

Plenty smoke, plenty rolled