This is a song about "Cookin daddy"

Bitches talk to me, and they send you niggas postcards

Spittin heat like the toaster cookin you pop tarts

I awoke to be cookin like a fryin pan,

Fuck whoever said the rap game wasn't edible man

Hey, don't do anything that i say in this song, okay? it's fuckin' fiction

The fiction they cookin' in the kitchen, nothing worth finga lickin'

With a daughter looking up to me always screaming "go daddy!"

To be rich like a king, and live my life, trouble free

And do it, for security, we gon’ make a pit a flow

Got it cookin' homonyms off in this volumetric flask slow

Cookin' in the old pot, turn into the crack rocks,

What a feeling of overcoming the odds

Nah, i wouldn’t wish fame on my enemy

Daddy sitting staring at my mummy,