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 fukk with me
Look what you done to me, was number one to me
After you shower, you and your gold metal flour
Then you rub your hot oil for about 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 rot
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 gonna be a nikka death
Created by southern black women to serve massa' guest
You gonna be a nikka death
Mrs. Fried Chicken you was my addiction
Dripping with hot cholest-
Like Greeks with his falafel, Italian with his to-mato pasta
What roti is to a rasta
Trapping me, you and your friend mac' and cheese
Candy yams collard greens but you knocking me to my knees
It's killing me when I'm this high
Nothing I need more than a fish fry