This is a song about "Woolpack and saxon garden"

And i got a foot fetish, so i probably have sex with your toes

We leaving ya in the back shed hanging by the neck with the garden hose

So i can write about my life of sina couple bottles of gin

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

The mirror's screaming at me saying i'm emmi lola's son

I'm marching my people through the garden of eden//

When it come to pistols, these niggas don't john lynch them

I can't ascend to the garden of eden?

And the word most important

And remember what i said and

But i'm from jers' and we don't play that shitfrom the clare down to north bricks, all my niggas flipping chips

To pay for the food in his garden its almost time for harvest its a combination of toxins

Punchlines and wordplay and rhyming and my metaphors,

My desire to never fall leads me to hitting walls

Here they keep a rachet close

In the garden guarding my hoes