This is a song about "The flying carpet"

I feel like i'm flying out of the atmosphere

Like i wasn't going for like mix-tape of the year

Started flying off the handle, call me mr sheen

50 dollars on some shoes you ain't ever seen

And every nigga suddenly be rappin bout that trap shit

The day you're matchin me is when some flying pigs have departed

I runaway with lights flying, waiting till day the nights dying

Only thing omitted is a baby or a wedding ring

Carcasses in carpet and drag em off to the market and sell em for charges

The irony in that is that i ain't even that, but you put it those pages

I ain't hiding, y'all ain't riding

The truth's there like the bird i seen flying

Ties up her up to a pole and puts his knives up on the carpet,

Can i meet that, where you be at, everybody try to beat that

Fire in my chest, from the sess, got me flying

Sick of tha sirens, body bags, and tha gun firing