This is a song about "Wooden clogs"

But a pole position you couldn't hold, not even your own wooden bone

But my vision has inclined to some interscope, and its home

My realm is shillack, my wooden floor's got a crack

Spit that raw shit, y'all some talkative condoms, fall back

I can finally rest in piece and sit in my wooden chair.

We missed you on the charts last week, damn, that's right you wasn't there

Mr. i-don't-give-a-fuck-about-you what they callin' him

Rotting in a graveyard garden, six feet deep in your wooden coffin