This is a song about "Your mailman"

And of course, my car's off course

My gun your scars, your wrist your calls

I'm fittin' shit, your hatin' it, your littleness, your genitals.

Out in the district they selling water and buying pistols

It's odd that they say that the crack kill blacks

Of your image, your touch, your laugh

Not dc, this whole fuckin' genre

Leave your running to your mamma,

This is how she want to live

Fuck your cars, fuck your feelings.

They getting deals with thier weak buzz

Freezing your nose, your eyes, your corneas,

Put it on whatever bitch, me and spitta high as shit

Your lyres are cheat so hold your pen open your book-let

Stop it, i'm hearin' the comments

Your family, your friends,