Sangtekst: JR Writer. Live From The Kitchen.

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[JR Writer:]
[coughing] Writers Block, bitch
Uhh, okay~!

Live from the kitchen, I'm back scrappin, fryin and wheelin
High as a pigeon, I am consistant
Pow to a chicken, I backpack iron for trippin
Grindin and pitchin, these rap cats lyin and snitchin
From the, trip and the road where they sit in the cold
Used to backstab you for the rock, quick get it home
Shrimp you supposed, slip on ya Joes, skip from the pose
And put you on your ass, make you slip on your toes
Hoe, this nigga is throwed, the sickest who else'll
Put your brains on your shirt so you can think to yourself, huh?
I shit on these elves, stuntin with cheddar
Make it rain on his dame, put her under the weather
It's a hundred or better, let it dump on whoever
Any beef you know the street sweep under the lever
Have fun, I'm next up, crushin in a red truck
Shot swing and pop, all your weapontry collect dust
Bitch I'm glistery, nothin like ya breakfast
Blow my wristery the color of some egg guts (canary)
More or less mark the heaval and the sickening
Just listen, these niggaz couldn't see me with prescriptions
I'm somethin that you wanna be and nothin like a wannabe
Pardon me, odds are G I plug one in your artery
You'll need more triggers, I heat all spitters
And like to welcome y'all to W, B-4 nigga

Huhh, oh yeah nigga, I'm back in the muh'fuckin building
You know what that muh'fuckin means, CHA-CHING!
More commas in my muh'fuckin bank account you get it?
Checks, them c-hecks, spell it out man
You already know what it is man I'm goin in
So get your muh'fuckin weight up man, YEAH
THAT CRACK~!