An artist raps about working on a piece while reflecting on personal habits and brushing off critics. He compares his precision to DeMar DeRozan's shooting and promises a hot album is coming, dismissing the cold reception to earlier tracks.
Chapters
I ain't been getting high. Well, maybe a little, baby, I don't wanna lie. I know when you text me, girl, I don't always reply. Well, you're not an angel either, you can't even fly. I know this, you think that you know shit. All this shade that's coming at me, I wonder who throws it. They can't see the vision, boy, they must be out of focus. That's a real hot album, homie, I wonder who wrote it. Oh shit, oh, Tay, make them niggas go away. Always hella clowns around, it look like circus show, like This is not the album either, these are just the throwaways. This shit still so cold when it drop, it's gonna be a motherfucking snow day. Hey boy, it's good and he knows it. He don't say it, he shows it. I'm just like DeRozan, if I shoot it, it goes in. I'm in Cali just coasting, get on, so what, they need coasters? I got a