This is a song about "Fried butter"

Southern comfort food, mashed potatoes, fried chicken,

Beat it up and leave faster than the rocket engine

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

I don't give a fuck either like father, like son, i'm done

Minutes slipping like butter, time turning the wheel

And i'm about to fill y'all in on the real

Instead of veggie fried lies and man's eyes exposed,

Climbing up the pole, jack and the beanstalk, bitch it's gold

And even more alarming is the fact

You fried under that heated lamp,

I don't wanna be fried or baked

Cause i’m going out with a fist raised

Flow smoother than paula deena butter

And if my mother answer, i'll ask her

Weird niggas make sick too i don't need no pistol

Mind fried and cynical, in hindsight it's critical