Sellin Rhymes (feat. Lokye)

Who do you, think you fucking with It's Home Chefs two, don't need no oven mitts We be on some other shit and y'all went undercover quick 50 clip with the sauce, I'll smother up your stomach sick Who do you, think you fucking with It's Home Chefs two, don't need no oven mitts Every time we get up in the kitchen, cook a fucking hit Either selling rhymes or shit to get you high, you know they loving it Home Chefs, smoke in the kitchen just like it's Hash Bash Try to double cross me, he gon' turn into a hash tag Put him on a post and leave his music in the trash can Banx, put a bow on your head, I'm jumping in the Chevy Banx, put a zip on your head, I'm running down the street Caught him at the stop sign and rearrange his fucking teeth Pull the golds out his mouth and take him to the pawn shop It's time to wake these motherfuckers up like alarm clocks Who do you, get your smoke from Slapping out the crib, so that's a home run Ask too many questions, man you acting like you want some How we supposed to demonstrate, snakes, we eliminate Let me set the record straight, don't play about my dinner plate Brody squeeze the juice up out the lemon on the interstate I've been moving fast down the road with no giveaways Sorry for the wait, this the work they anticipate Who do you, think you fucking with It's Home Chefs two, don't need no oven mitts We be on some other shit and y'all went undercover quick 50 clip with the sauce, I'll smother up your stomach sick Who do you, think you fucking with It's Home Chefs two, don't need no oven mitts Every time we get up in the kitchen, cook a fucking hit Either selling rhymes or shit to get you high, you know they loving it I be in the kitchen heavy cheffin' like I'm Martha Stewart Little man complex like his name is fucking Stewart Dropping P's off like babies from the fucking stork When you working this hard, you need your meals in seven course Bullets flying around, I'll send a pussy to the morgue Little bro bro off that sleepy pack, it made him snore The blunts that I be smoking make you fly it make you sore I can't stop making this paper till my face is on the Forbes, yeah Box just came in from the mailman Quick to the crack it open, that's my baby do she smell that This the type of shit that make you pull up in a Hellcat F*ck this tree delicious, shake that right on my bean bag I be steady cookin, cookin, cookin, bout to break that fucking pot Knots in my pocket, bout to rip the fucking cotton Came up on the stoop with the heathens and the goblins Cooking up that hot crack, ain't got no guilty conscience