Lord, Lord ya'll

What I'm gonna do?
Lord, lord ya'll
Shit is all true

Mmm, fried chicken
Fly vixen
Give me heart disease
But need you in my
Kitchen
You a bird, but you ain't a ki
Got wings but you can't fly away from me
Driving in your bucket seats
All the way from Kentucky to fuck with me
Look what you've done to me
Who's number one to me?
After you shower
You and your Gold Medal flour
Then you rub your hot oil for bout a half an hour
You in your hot tub, I'm looking at you salivating
Dry you off, I got your paper towel waiting
Lay you down cause you're red hot
Louisiana style you make my head rock
Then I flock
To the bed then plop
When we done, I need rest
Don't know what part of you I love best
Your legs or your breasts
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you gon be a nigga death
Created by southern black women
To serve massa guest
You gon be a nigga death
Mrs. Fried Chicken
You was my addiction
Dripping with high cholest
Like Greeks with his falafel
Italian with his tomato
Pasta
What roach is to a rasta
Trapping me
You and your friend mac and cheese
Candied yams, collard greens
But you knocking me to my knees
Is killing me when I miss, ah
Nothing I need more than a fish fry

Shit
It taste good, I can't lie
It's like you're walking out a tanning salon
When I pull you out the oven from baking
I got you on my mind
Rubbing that sun tan lotion all up over your body
So amazing
How you sparkle when I glaze you swine
Hey
My pretty ham hock
It's so feminine
The way you submitting
And how you gave me power
To massaging me
To shower you with lemon water
Marinate you with seasoning, dipping you in chowder
Baby
It's like you at the spa
The way you gently lay in the pan
While enjoying your buttermilk treatment
I sit and watch the grease sizzle
Bubbling on your skin
Despite the funny fragrance still I lick my finger frequent
In any event
I'm reflecting on all the signs that I got saying that I shouldn't fuck with you
But the way that you would taste made you hard to resist
When I put my mouth on you but that's another issue
Butterflies up in my stomach
When I laid eyes on you
Or was it infection manifesting?
Confused over the feeling
Impatiently eating you, choking
A worm chewing on the wall of my intestine
I'm a eat you til there's nothing left
Til my very last breath
You gon be a nigga death
Despite a preparing the best at specializing
Cooking swine as a chef
You gon be a nigga death
Who cares if the swine's
Mixed with rat, cat, and dog combined?
Yes, I'm a eat the shit to death

Ain't that some shit?
I'm a eat some shit
Until what I'm eating kills me
And I choose to do that
Why?
Cause that's just what niggas do

Nas ft Busta Rhymes, Fried Chicken, Untitled, 2008