This is a song about "Chef boyardi"

I’m callin’ on you ’cause i can’t do it myself

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

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

So if i'm not clubbing, don't think i'm on some jerk shit

And getting money is the song i sing

But the chef won't let me me eat nothing

Crack dealer, master chef, i own the kitchen

She’s a star if i ever seen one

Every body a chef,it's a stretching mission in your nana's second kitchen

I'm grand theft auto, racketeering, larceny, conspiracy, murder one

Eatin nubo dishes, with my soul food princess

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

Driver drop me off at dulles im headed to some money

I fly a tailor and a private chef from sicily

They giving me pounds and thats of course getting money

Different chef, same pot bro, not guianese buddy