This is a song about "Deep fried dyrangs"

Mind fried and cynical, in hindsight it's critical

I got my finger on the mothafuckin' pistol

I ain't no emo nigga, i do not lean on women

Southern comfort food, mashed potatoes, fried chicken,

Shout it loud as you can, i ain't listening, i breathe deep,

Like you never did right? sort of like a black sheep

You fried under that heated lamp,

Welfare, no health care, a true tramp

I'm walkin' to the food trays to get some fried chicken,

I’m popping now, every other hour, paparazzi come

Picture me lettin this chump survive

With deep, intricate, meticulous rhymes

I don't wanna be fried or baked

Look, just remember how that winning taste