This is a song about "Chef boyardi"

Crack dealer, master chef, i own the kitchen

And you call this shit rape but i think that rape's fun

The silver-lining couldn't find 'em up on any shelf

I keep it crackin like denny's eggs, cuz im the chef,

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

We can’t even talk ‘less you got the check

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

With a home girl, best friend, lover, all that

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

My bitches ballin' to the maya moore's, yes

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

‘cause he could die any day and you still the same thing

But the chef won't let me me eat nothing

I never back up like cleo lemon on myself

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