This is a song about "Two three four roses"

You spit that end rhyme trash i'm spittin syllables two or three

Cooking in a laboratory, hoping i can tell a story

And niggas flashing crazy

One two three, what could it be

One two three to late now your gone busted nose

You feel it from your head to your toes

Maybe i can help u a lil with a dollar three or two

I'm selling wisdom, just try and listen i'm tryna get you

I'll chew a new one up every two to three minutes,

It's fucking immaculate, the way your daughter smacking dicks

I'm fucking asthmatic, my records problematic

Roses/ and immortal tactics buried in my attic

That's why i get cut like i don't fuck with the coach knees

Normally i order three or four of these

Glory but you dint know my back story. then i go one two three

Grandma called, see me on the billboards around the city