This is a song about "French fry and tator tot"

This is something different

Grab the scissors and saws and

Tell the homies i'm in heaven and they ain't got hoods

I fry niggas come at me than you might get yours

My city, growl with me, hootie hoo'ing through the night sky

Hook me up to a chair and watch as my brains fry,

Im sizzlin like french fries

Hey! what's your name? oh, that's nice

I never ever can see no when i be in her slot

My j-o-b to roast or fry this age old beef till the mic is h-o-t,

Girl your body lookin’ like a fuckin’ pot of gold

Coldest clothes, bankrolls and hoes, and o's and o's, alone and cold,

I never quit it, the youngest one of my mother's children

You're gonna have to pardon my french, mr. englishman

And so the muscle flow is something you can't get no muzzel for

So type ur best n i'll fry ur set take a minute n hour