This is a song about "Chef boyardee"

Different chef, same pot bro, not guianese buddy

But if so, i'll take the scorn, indeed happily

I won't say i won't eat it if you chef it

Took off my rollie and got on some audemeer shit

Crack dealer, master chef, i own the kitchen

Ok, black panamera, dash on a million

Swung left, no breath, chef ahead, must be fed, kept pet.

Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead

Was thrown into my closet, to make room for the chef.

See i can’t keep you baby girl i'mma confess

But the chef won't let me me eat nothing

Tryin’ to bag a brother with a super bowl ring

And you don’t understand my slang my colloquial’s lovely

I fly a tailor and a private chef from sicily

And wale been tellin' other rappers take a deep breath

Was thrown into my closet, to make room for the chef.