This is a song about "Wyatt gold the faker"

With the blaze a your bluntsand you can picture thoughts slowly

Yall niggas phony, faker than the "meat" in bologna

But you know i control your soul, motherfucker do what your told

Philosopher's stone made into the cylinder turning the rockets to gold,

Is a space that now you hold

Its the truth in the booth, i spit gold

That'd be the day his label treat him like a signal fade

The gold on the fame sucks, i feel i’m growing estranged,

Don't follow the trail of gold or you will be controlled

Climbing up the pole, jack and the beanstalk, bitch it's gold

And the red sun sinks at least into the hills of gold,

But i did have miss medusa, she loud and she leave me stoned

I tell them killers they ain't figure what they fightin' for

Fame made me self-absorbed mesmerized by the gold i wore

Turn it upside down and open your legs if you're real cold

I miss the sixpack i had, now i turn iron into gold