This is a song about "Ya mutha"

Shoes, louis, prada, groupie blah blah

I let that choppa intersect ya

They said show me ya gats, ya cash, ass ya smashed

Stuck in my high, afraid of heights, i'm trapped

Take ya to ya favorite restaurant

Cause my mother let me do what i want

Bow our heads, say our grace, make it out the hood was amazing grace

Gun to my waist heart beating like im in a mutha fuckin chase

I caught a felony lovin the way the guns blow

I'm rapping colder then a mutha fucking eskimo

Cause all you got now is too much room space, shoe space

I can keep goin on and on on these mutha fuckas for days.

Cause youse a down ass bitch, and i ain't mad at cha

Fantastics, grandmasters attending funerals past ya