Song meaning of IV. Sweatpants by Childish Gambino

Oh, dear Childish Gambino, what a rich kid you are. You got the game locked while half-Thai thickies wanna Bangkok. You're so insensitive even your girl asks why you say that. But hey, you're chilling and feeling like a real nigga while spitting cash flow with DJ Khaled. You got penthouses on both coasts while maintaining pH balance. You rep the rich kid asshole label and paint yourself as a villain while you got more tail than PetCo. You wonder if your haters are eating, or if they just got silverware for show. Breakfast, lunch and dinner is for beginners that they don't even know. You don't catch cases, but you watch EMO faces. Haters play you like a piano while your architect knows Japanese and your girl's jockin' these. No hands, like soccer teams and fuck boys like Socrates ain't coppin' these. You ain't checkin' I.D. but you bounce 'em with no problem, like Problem. You winning, always winning. But they don't know that Fiskers don't make noise when they start up. You are on top of the holy totem, with a million not being enough. You're born rich and driving a Fisker, while your father owns half of MoMA with no diploma. You got no rules and trippin' on toadstools while having more green than Whole Foods. You're too fly, Jeff Goldblum, and you got a glass house in the Palisades. You're living like a Coppola with Sofia, while your haters wake up broke and wouldn't wanna be ya. You're friends with the dopeman who helps you re-up while your girlfriend brings you trouble. Onomatopoeia goes "err-eh-err-eh" while you tailor-make your cool. You're winning so much they had to dump Gatorade on you like a football coach. And you don't give a fuck about your family name. What are haters gonna do?