This is a song about "Your six pack ain t shit"

I might even keep your blood wrapped in a snack pack

Gods words all cursed like crackshai-tan's way of gettin us back

Six pack, of beer is in my refrigerator.

The nerve of this prick, he said fuck it you can have her

Inked up on my hands and arms, got them jams in my pocket

*aight now its time for t smallz to hop on dis shit*

Then i grab a six pack and head on back to the grave

I’m a sinner, jesus christ, please forgive me for my ways

Now your done and six feet under

I pipe in and one night her

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

I smoke the greenest of medicine till the government let us win

She looks better than beyonce, alicia keys

College degree, scores on my s a t, shit, please,

From the palms of jeffrey dahmer, baby mamas said the kicks

Ain t happenin!!! you bitches faker then 8 mannequins