Jimmy still cookin’ in the back, aprons blood-stained,
stove top brick-colored like it’s Red October,
21 whippin’ two pots, call it twin revolvers,
Drake just flew the owl in, feathers still snow-covered.
We don’t measure grams in grief, we just bag it and leave,
ghost-face kilo talk, whisper through the Balenciaga sleeve.
Tell the blogs we retired, still the scale won’t close,
Jimmy fry the hate alive, serve it back in red rose.