This is a song about "Iron chef"

Iron fist like gauntlets to your jaw for heroics

Y'all always on that bs and ps i'm takin all things

But whenever there's pain, that feeling forever remains

I’m playing my hand and riding the iron horses and trains,

Was thrown into my closet, to make room for the chef.

Body holy water blessed, i'm feeling the stress

Swung left, no breath, chef ahead, must be fed, kept pet.

That sick set, tryna get my kickflips wet

I think you need the streets to succeed the industry

Different chef, same pot bro, not guianese buddy

The skin is thick, no need for leather, your father called

Its no different, from the iron ones, your grandfather fought

Crack dealer, master chef, i own the kitchen

No fx, in these doper than sess sessions son

Then dipping with the fucking pen to go sin again

I used to ride the iron horse, and that was the train,