Song meaning of FREE SPIRIT by Shindy

Oh, Shindy, you free spirit you! Your lyrics are like a rollercoaster ride through a twisted amusement park. You're over the whole Botox and G-Class obsession and tired of moms dieting all year round. Instead, you want to dive into the unknown, like shouting into the woods just to see what happens. And while you're at it, you can't resist mentioning how Niko is about to start school soon, because priorities, right? But let's not forget your impeccable fashion sense, dressed up like a majestic cathedral. Germany just can't handle your attitude, my friend, and you're out here living your best life, eating well, and...f*cking hard? That's definitely a mood! Your smoothness is compared to pistachio cream, and you feel as majestic as a horse on a Ferrari emblem. And down in southern Germany, you lace up Forces and race Porsches like it's just another day. Your front spoiler is lower than Jesus' advance payment, so no one stands a chance against you. It's all just too easy, like a Sunday morning. You're practically born with this level of coolness. You love throwing shade at the "Hursöhn," telling them to brace themselves because here comes a blitz attack, a thunderstorm. And oh, your blüte (blossoming) is in full swing, unlike those poor souls indulging in some casual "Blümchensex." No, no, you're in full bloom, baby, like a spring festival. And hey, if it's not Bucherer, then it's Wempe or Rüschenbeck for your luxurious shopping needs. God knows you spoil that fat ass on your ironing board. A quarter million on your wrist on any given day, demonstrating the fact that we'll never "flertragen." Felix Blume thinks he's in his prime, but who does he think he's threatening with that costume rental outfit? You, a Canada-German, looked like a sloppy drunkard next to Scott Storch. But you, my friend, are drippy like Johannes the Baptist, just coming out of holy water. Twenty years in the rap game, and not a scratch on you, just chillin' on the rooftop of the Mandarin. You've got balls, like you've been mentored by someone legendary. Oh, and don't even get me started on those Pateks and Birkin Bags. How about booking you as the funny promo clown for Pablo's birthday bash? Look at your jewelry, glittering like a star, while the other so-called stars tremble in Munich like little pussies. And you, Shindy, are just getting started. You're the Neo of the Matrix, while we all know the video where Paul breaks your arm. You shed a tear with watery eyes, but you know what? Let's just do it on those Jordans you've been rocking since the last millennium. Compared to your numbers, theirs look like Latin pop, and that fat pig Frederic needs a real job, thanks to you. In the back right seat of a Maybach-Benz, while their ghostwriters are all your Diehard fans. They may have ten ghostwriters, but you don't need any help, because you're smoother than a freshly waxed MILF's legs. You're the G.O.A.T., like Jigga, until you fade to black, while they're stuck on their Facetune app, tweaking their pictures to look cute. But you've got your pants hanging low, like a Clueless episode. With Psalm 23, you fear no one, while they've been hanging on your "Schwanz" for six years now. They're like those b*tches with the V.I.P. wristbands, Internet-Insta-Hoes, addicted to attention. Look at your numbers; you don't need their support. Oh, who would've thought? You're taking it unsportsmanlike. Your weed doesn't hit as hard as their midlife crisis. And look at them, on some Hitler-type shit. Yes, you write your own sh*t, just like Friedrich Schiller. And you set that b*tch on fire like Bushido's villa. They're standing in line at LIDL like normal consumers, dressed like the staff at the hagebaumarkt. Frederic, that fat bastard, better clean the car. Everyone knows you're a superstar like Adenauer. You're endangering various businesses, while Kollegah wishes he could be as narcissistic as you. Fantasy players, they try to catch up with your trends but end up standing on wobbly legs like Fler's retirement fund. Farid asks his mom about paternity tests because his father was never around. Clearly, you all have daddy issues. Well, no worries, because you're all just a bunch of orphans, and you're their new father from now on. Go, pick a rose for Daddy. Oh my God, you're even cheekier without a backbone. Bling-bling, your diamond chain is bigger than Kollegah's attack surface. Did you know? You don't squash beef. No, they'll be sucking your d*ck before they lay a finger on you. And then they'll try to find a rhyme for "Violoncello." You'll be 35 and still beefing like a barrel. Oh, you magnificent son of a b*tch, give me an orchid. Yes, I'll talk to you just like this when I'm standing in front of you. If I were 1.50 meters tall, I'd pee on heads. Sony will release all of this just as it is. What's it like to be a star? It makes you moody. You don't give a sh*t about anyone who's not in the room with you. You've been feuding since NWA, and you're popping champagne like Kay's mama. Look at me; I give f*cks and piss on family trees. Even Farid celebrates, knowing that you never deceive. They may have weak genes claiming to be alpha, but I'll send those ugly mo'fuckers to the nursing home. Your next album will flop because of me, and finally, I'll give them a reason for JBG 4. It's a hot, hot summer, so let your chains hang out from your shirt. "Me against the world" is the only thing that still turns you on.