This is a song about "You the type"

The type of shit that you don't have to asked who produced it

I'm the first one to do that i bet you never knew that

Got heat super freak rick james ya bitch, leave a stain & shit

The type of shit that you don't have to asked who produced it

Ripley's believe it or not would tell you that i'm different

Cause you the type of bitch that will trip over a stump,

But somethin' was always missin' like six digits

I brittle your ribs, you the type of guy that fiddles with kids

Those the type of people who can't wait to get you gone

Cuz you f-frontin and f-fakin its just plain wrong

You the the type of bitch to make a niggah want to use his fist

So the right to have these women, i'm entitled to their interest

Like your bitchin' wife and sister might get tonight

Truths are cloudy and i believe the stereo type

That's a little math joke, for you slow type

‘cause every mother’s day needs a mother’s night