Sol-Food
[Hook: !LLumiN@TE]
Candy yams, sweet potato pies
Niggas live to eat, but can’t eat to stay alive, huh?
Candy yams, sweet potato pies
Niggas live to eat, but can’t eat to stay alive, yo
[Verse 1: !LLumiN@TE]
The Sol-Food line’s open for business
Funky Diabetic—Phife Dawg, beg your forgiveness
I’m ignant, egg-washed fried chicken, whole chicken
Got the center breast and the thigh missing. Guess they grew
Legs and some wings, walked then flew away. Did the
Egg or the chicken come first? Who can say?
Do the chicken noodle soup—it’s the soup of the day
With these buttermilk biscuits, rutabaga soufflé
Filet mignon-ing, early-morning pouring
Mimosa raindrops falling ‘til my cup runneth
Over. It’s Santería, sangria
Yemayá by the damn liter you sip to soar. More
Mere mortals, I’m mortified. The moral obligation when
Telling truth is to let it fly, never lie. Li-
-bations served at Sol-Food Sunday
Food for thought, Sunday School gunplay. Pray that
You duck
[Hook: !LLumiN@TE]
Candy yams, sweet potato pies
Niggas live to eat, but can’t eat to stay alive, huh?
Candy yams, sweet potato pies
Niggas live to eat, but can’t eat to stay alive, yo
[Verse 2: SciryL]
Soul-eater, chrome heater bust
Stove heater, comb feed a duck. Yup. Hmm
Soul greasy, hoes’ streets are rough. Yo
Is you brave? You gon’ eat this up? You stand
At your plate—geez, you got cold feet or what? In this place
No greens get touched. Hmm, niggas collard
The pig who tried to collar the kid, tried to step in
Caught a death kiss from collagen lips. Fuck the Feds
Stuck his head in a pot of some grits, and he cried
When he died, it supplied us with ribs. It’s the Bobby Seale
Barbeque, it’s the hard-to-kill, hardest crew
It’s that, got to be hard to chew. Sickle cell
Harvest, scraps to the garbage chute, scrap
With a squad or two, black with the heart of Zeus, tracks
For the chronicle, crack and the thought of brew
With a Stacey Dash, trying to find a Clue. Rookie max
Pussycat, heh, sonic boom. Ask, “Where the
Pussy at?” ‘fore I find a fool. More smoke
Than a Chronic 2001 grilling with an iron lung
Stick a fork in him. Shit, the cop is done. One