em in the skillet Okay, listen, no no, no no [Incomprehensible] Gimme a little bit of that pepper, pepper Gimme a little bit of that salt, salt Put it in the skillet and cook it, cook
翻訳: 時間. 料理教室.
the song cry I can't see 'em comin' down my eyes So I gotta make the song cry Good dudes, I know you love me like cooked food Even though a nigga gotta
Don't wanna waste your time Sit back and relax your mind I wanna be what you need and more Just tell me what you like Girl, are you hungry let me cook
get busy on this record So we can make the dough, shit And make girls like Kiki Shepard get naked On the strength! Party with machine and Oprah Winfr' First class
motherfuckers'll break your heart Until you recognize game in your face You's a punk ass bitch, ain't never been no place I can't hold back, now's the time
stopping 'til my money is long, So much dough, them hoes will think I'm rocking money cologne. Have a model at the crib waiting, "Honey, I'm home." Cooking
place to myself, my parents went outta town So I had the music up and was runnin' around Singing to the beat of my favorite underground Song at the time
can never pack this (why?), you ain't had the practice Crack shit, street talk, hood life, thug shit All that and then some, started this drug shit Cookies - we cooked
left wizard thousand times maybe tonight though But you sexy mothafucka damn what's the recipe You make a nigga wanna god damn Can you cook darlin',
3 passports, 3 first class tickets to the money straight flights I live by the cold war drove from round the globe all I need is a kilo, a apron, show
3 passports, 3 first class tickets to the money straight flights [Rick Ross] I live by the cold war drove from round the globe all I need is a kilo,
enforced in school so we can get rid of all the bad apples in the bunch Clean up the wall and cook better lunch Put the students in class where they
thugs could rule and selling crack was cool Knocked off hundred packs brought stacks to school No diploma, weed aroma nigga half coma know the tricks of the class
sack for the three time losers Pour out some beer, bust out the ruger Ladies and gentleman Bullets will leave you tremblin' Shooken up I got my cuban mommy cooking
world Where thugs can rule, and selling crack was cool Knocked off hundred-packs, brought stacks to school No diploma, weed aroma, nigga half coma Know the tricks in the class
ring" goes the bell, their cooking the lunches ready to sell, you're lucky if you can find a seat, fortunate if you have time to eat , back in the
toy box! "Nothing feels better than a good harty-harr, right boys and girls" [Violent J] We got dead bodies everywhere you look All the nerds sitting up front got cooked
