This is a song about "The hut"

I make music for a reason, didn't vote obama

So call the coroner or the mortician for the the

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

And i ain't shallow, material things suppress bad luck

Put the grants in the safe, 'cause we spending the jacksons, the

All my shit designeri fucked your bitch in versace, nigga

The streetz is aint the safe

Say you through will all my foul ways

In the face of the outside.

On that red-eyed kush flight

Pawning my chain in the shop

From the bottom to the top

I bring the heat like the

Coroners comfort your mama

The realist in the game

Things'll never be the same