This is a song about "Master chef"

{*both*} but first lemme, lemme, lemme talk to her

I'm like fine art or a lyrical master,

It's just my master plan.

Playboy, i don't own that man

Cuz im the female rapping master

I'll touch slap her, dap her, plus clap her

Because back then i wasn't a master

Other dudes be huggin and nourishin her

Master, bubba, and lemon g,

But five years from now i bet she see

Beat it up and leave faster than the rocket engine

Crack dealer, master chef, i own the kitchen

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

Didn't make it through college, still debating my progress

I kill beats and faggots and you're no rap master

Money got me sagging, it really doesn't matter