This is a song about "The tide"

Why they try to see my flow, but they know that's outta sight

Her soul swashed with agony and its high tide

Dial the humidifier, arrange the amplifier/

I am only a fighter, in the form of a writer

Cuz they all broken, why do ghetto birds die

Like a crimson tide i let the fury fly

So call the coroner or the mortician for the the

Obie trice, pour out a lil' liquor nigga

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

Organized crime, i kill your boss

You’re the plastic, i’m the passion and the magic in the air

Blowin' fuck it i don't care, dreads is flyin' everywhere

The weed into the bong

Pay dues like a hair salon

I'm the nigga with the juice

One time for the girls with the right shoes