Drive-Thru Deathmatch

Lyrics

Intro
dark movie trailer voice
Midnight
Grease on the ground
Six chains, six crowns
Only one throne in this drive-thru town

KFC – boomy, preacher tone
Verse 1
It’s the colonel in the cut, boy, bow to the bucket (bow!)
Eleven in the stash, secret code, you can’t touch it
Chicken Treat talk tough, that’s a budget-ass cousin
You a mall food court, I’m a whole state function

Red Rooster, you a joke, lil’ suburb side quest
Lines so short, they could park on your chest
Golden Arches think they god, but they plastic as the toy
You a playground clown, I’m the meal for the boys

Burger King, fake crown, cardboard kingpin
Your buns fall apart when the beef gets swingin’
Hungry Jack’s just a copy, mirror in the back
Australian knockoff wearing Burger King’s hat

I’m the grease on your fingers, the stain on your shirt (uh-huh)
I’m the late-night sin, I’m the gospel of hurt
When this bucket hit the table, all your clout get fried
Better pray before you bite, ‘cause I’m takin’ your pride

Chorus
All you clowns get cooked in the drive-thru deathmatch (yeah!)
Who the f**k want smoke with the deep-fried death pack? (woo!)
Oil pop, lights drop, we don’t serve no step back
Name on the bag or your name on the headstone, that’s facts

All you kings, all you clucks get carved in the hatch (cluck!)
Talk big till you drip in the red sauce splash
One throne, one crown in the late-night snack trap
Name on the sign or your name on the toe tag, that’s that

[McDonald’s – cocky, slightly nasal, fast delivery]
Verse 2
I’m the M on the map, whole globe in my pocket (uh)
You just local lil’ spots tryna flex in my market
Chicken Treat, sit down, you a regional rumor
I’m a worldwide problem, you a coupon bloomer

KFC preachin’ like the colonel some prophet
But your chicken too soggy, all that hype in the coffin
Red Rooster, who the f**k really riding for you?
You that last choice stop when the tank near through

Burger King talk flame, but your patties look tired
Dry-ass crown, every bite feel expired
Hungry Jack’s, you a knockoff king with an accent
Still can’t match this cash-printing franchise flex

I feed billions, b**ch, I don’t need to brag loud
Your whole year’s revenue is my slowest lunch crowd
McFlurry in my left, Big Mac in the right (skrrt)
You can fight over crumbs, I’m just counting all night

Chorus
All you clowns get cooked in the drive-thru deathmatch (deathmatch)
Who the f**k want smoke with the deep-fried death pack? (who?)
Oil pop, lights drop, we don’t serve no step back
Name on the bag or your name on the headstone, that’s facts

All you kings, all you clucks get carved in the hatch
Talk big till you drip in the red sauce splash (drip!)
One throne, one crown in the late-night snack trap
Name on the sign or your name on the toe tag, that’s that

[Red Rooster – laid-back, sly, Aussie drawl]
Verse 3
Ayy, it’s the Rooster, low-key but the locals all know (yeah)
You the billboard boys, I’m the backyard glow
Chicken Treat, we cousins, but I still talk slick
You the bargain bin bird, I’m the Sunday pick

KFC greasy sermons got ‘em runnin’ for a napkin
Talk finger-lickin’ good, but the texture stay slackin’
Macca’s think global, but the taste so plain
You the safe-ass option when they scared of real flame

Burger King and Hungry Jack’s, y’all fight over a throne
Same dry-ass crown on a different time zone
You argue over wh