Get Out the Kitchen

[Verse 1: billy woods]
Play your position or get the fuck out the kitchen
Take what’s yours or keep wishing. My mama’ll
Tell you I don’t listen. In addition, there’s
A price for admission. I got pot but not
To piss in, and if you shut up, might hear the gas
Hissing. I’m already dead like a Pale-
-stinian on a mission. After image seared
In the retina like faded graffiti, cooking pies
Baked off ziti, cut you where it’s meaty
It’s what for dinner, my crew mad greedy
Sauté my forte, BK all day
Where I get it my way

[Verse 2: Priviledge]
Priviledge rip this, Mike Myers surveys
Spit these ridiculous flows, ripping clothes of
The same emcee in half. When he steps up
To bat, every day, it’s the same old thing: just
Some false and fronting motherfuckers everywhere I look around
They’re one and the same, so I touch ‘em down
With this lyrical diction, spit a hype ren-
-dition of a mic collision with tight wisdom. Yo, the
Light glistens like the calm of a storm, but it’s
Type crimson. Time-shifters and technicians
Couldn’t keep track of how I trek through dimensions
Did I mention spitting venomous prose, yelling in tones scarcely
Audible? Sometimes, it’s barely when the volume go
But always problematic if you hear me right across from you
Whispering the kiss of death, spitting nothing less until
These bitches coming out of dresses, ask for Priviledge backstage
I got game, trying to mack like back in the day
Where female bathers washed my troubles away just
Like Semmi and Akeem when they Came to America
In search of a queen. I’m clinging by a feather on
The wings of a dream. Dissention, it seems, are in the ranks
You’re getting benched on your team without no thanks. Like
A trembling fiend, spend his last on crank. Telling
These niggas that cats’ll come and push that shank while
You’re not looking. Not a Spike Lee joint but still Crooklyn
These city blocks that we’re stuck in, we’re running, we’re
Fucking, do drugs and act tough in like it’s nothing
This is life, cousin. This is my mic and
I love it, so I’m not fronting. Strife coming, so we
Stay blunted, Olde-E-guzzling on the block ‘til
The cops tried to stop something, pat me down. “Duke
I got nothing but a combo of nuggets, you won’t find one of ‘em”
I’m holding tons, son. Fuck a shakedown
These badge-wearing gangsters don’t fool me, they hold guns
Like Nino Brown to a nigga back like he was
A lecherous servant. Is that protecting and serving? All
I see ‘em do is spreading cheeks like sexual perverts, and
The cats who deserve it skate daily, leaving crews
Split up, niggas trying to get their corner back like Champ Bailey
I just want to smoke L’s fat as Hank Fraley
And spit flows deeper than the SEALs in the Navy
And if I make ten cent, it’s all gravy ‘cause
I do it for the love of the game. Trust me, dawg
The struggle’s the aim, it’s all a hustle, we all one and the same