This is a song about "The fur trade canda"

Alcohol and booty calls

The pain, the loss, the grief, the cross.

Can we take shots? what's your flavor? flat drinks we call a cups

Your punches to satan are like loose fur that just tickles

Blow up with power the conclusion is the world trade towers

Multiple colors, my mind's more productive than others

Then never touch it, like your goatee it's grown for years

Blow up with power the conclusion is the world trade towers

Remember hugging her with her coat soft with fur

I been doing this for forever, so whatever

They trade semen as their holes fill up by the liter

Condoleezza, this is lyrical ether

So call the coroner or the mortician for the the

Throw him off the banister, shoot him on camera

This is my sixth crusade, handing out hand grenades on every single slave trade,

So play this shit while you contemplate, contemplate, contemplate