This is a song about "Cook"

We'll cook ya for lunch and serve you at red lobster,

Hella proper, my garment is propeller of chopper

Cook a verse send it out hardly a look

Dear momma don't cry, your baby boy's doin good

You is not hip then i can not coach her

I'm the butcher, the cook and heart taker

She even said she can cook!

Smoke ? you know it taste good

No matter what i cook i know the fucking recipe,

They giving me pounds and thats of course getting money

Ain't too fond of relationships though my hobby is relation

It cook up imagination to generations of our nation

Wayne told me that and that's just how it goes

So i proposed that we cook her on a stove,

All on the furniture with no regards

Spittin heat like a toaster cook you pop tarts