[Intro] (Yeah... last ticket out) (Kill the hood fans... let's go) [Verse 1] Clocked in at ten when the sun was still yawnin' Prepped forty pounds of onions, eyes burnin' all mornin' Lunch rush hit like a freight train, tickets on the rail Dinner crowd stacked behind it, printer never failed Sixteen hours on the line, I can't feel my feet Non-slips stickin' to the tile from the grease and the heat Chef callin' "Corner! Behind!" Yes chef, heard Sizzle on the flat top talkin' louder than words Burn marks on my forearm like a city map Every scar a Friday night, never took a nap Last check fired, last plate up in the window Server mouthin' "thank you" while the lights go dim slow [Hook] Hoods off (hoods off), scrape the flat top clean Wrap it, date it, stack it in the walk-in, you know what I mean Double shift, sixteen deep, still on my feet Last one out the kitchen when the city's asleep [Verse 2] Now it's breakdown time, everything in its place Cambros in the walk-in, label tape, date, no waste Fryer oil filtered, black gold in the drum Dish machine steamin' like a subway when the pots come Bucket of sanitizer, red rag, wipe the steel Dishwasher Manny bumpin' oldies, keepin' it real We don't talk much, just a nod, that's respect Two soldiers in the trench, both waitin' on a check Rent due Tuesday and the tip-out was thin Knees creakin' like the walk-in when I'm haulin' stock in Squeegee the floor, push the water to the grate Mop strings swingin' like a DJ cuttin' breaks Pull the mats, hose 'em down out back by the dumpster Alley cat starin' at me like a regular customer [Hook] Hoods off (hoods off), scrape the flat top clean Wrap it, date it, stack it in the walk-in, you know what I mean Double shift, sixteen deep, still on my feet Last one out the kitchen when the city's asleep [Verse 3] Two a.m., hood fans finally silent Kitchen was a warzone, now it's quiet as an island Check the pilot lights, burners off, walk-in shut Count the drawer twice, throw the deadbolt, that's what's up Smell like fryer oil and bleach, that's my cologne Bus stop bench, to-go box, eatin' cold on my own Stars over the parking lot, my feet in a fever Six hours of sleep then I'm back on the cleaver Ain't complainin', this the grind that I chose Every plate that you love came from hands nobody knows [Hook] Hoods off (hoods off), scrape the flat top clean Wrap it, date it, stack it in the walk-in, you know what I mean Double shift, sixteen deep, still on my feet Last one out the kitchen when the city's asleep [Outro] (Hoods off...) (Lights out... see you at ten) (Yes chef.)
