But then you’re high off the weed and you’re starin’ at your seeds
Like, ‘Where the fuck my friends at?’
When you cool, they think you soft
When you hard, they think you off
How the fuck you rearrange that?
I sat back and did the math
I been to hell and back and twice paid my dues, no change back
No complaints, I just asked, ‘Where the strains at?’
It seem to be seen laid up, where the planes at?