This is a song about "We are getting old"

That ice be onto my neck and wrist

These fuckin' pricks are getting me ticked

These faces and places are growing old,

You're like the sun and winter, my pot of gold

These wack bitches getting old

Black woman you cold

Thats it we getting rich

Nas told me life's a bitch

I saved her number just in case but now it’s case closed

The simple things in life were getting pretty old

Are almost as old as yo mama

Lucky seven probably poppa

I read about napoleon hill and try to know god

Your rhymes are so old, if they sit out they're gonna rot.

Rapping the old way i wish we could

Fistful of wood, twisted for the good