Layne Pavoggi - Gordon Ramsay vs Julia Child lyrics

[Intro] EPIC RAP BATTLES OF HISTORY! GORDON RAMSAY! VERSUS! JULIA CHILD! BEGIN! [Verse 1: Gordon Ramsay] And that's how you make a perfect risotto Right, Mrs. Child, welcome to the grown-ups' table I've got exactly two minutes and you should be grateful Cause I'm in the f**ing weeds with all these shows to pitch I keep my ovens preheated and my pilots green-lit I'm a seasoned sk**et, you're a PAM-sprayed pan I've got Michelin stars, you're like the Michelin Man I'm rolling in dough, like Beef Wellington from hollering And I'm sh**ting on you like I'm wack flows intolerant [Verse 2: Julia Child] Oh, isn't that a wonderful thing? A grumpy little chef who thinks he can bring Enough stuff to justify getting rough With the bu*ter-loving queen of the bourguignon boeuf I rock hard as concrete on top of these bomb beats Been chopping the pommes frites since you s**ed on your mom's teats I served America dutifully, and I sliced lard beautifully I reigned supreme from shark repellent to charcuterie Go on and cross your arms in that b-boy stance And when it comes to haute cuisine, there's one F-word: France Here's a nice amuse-bouche, take a poor abused youth Set a thirty-year timer, voila! Huge douche! You're a namby-pamby candy-a**ed pansy, Gordon Ramsay You couldn't rap your way out of a pastry bag, understand me? I laugh and create, you berate and destroy But fear, my dear boy, is less scrumptious than joy [Verse 3: Gordon Ramsay] I'm glad that you got that off your giant, flabby chest I'd call you a Donkey but you look more like Shrek When the Iron Man chef busts a rhyme I'll open up on you like a fine red wine I'm a culinary innovator, you're no creator Regurgitating French plates like a glorified translator I'm fresh, you're past your expiration date Alright, f** it, blue team, drop the bouillabaisse (yes, chef!) I've seen your little show and it sure ain't pretty One part Big Bird, two parts Miss Piggy You can't test me with your fatty recipes Call your book "Mastering the Art of Heart Disease" I mean, it's rubbish, (yes, chef!) look at page 408 Tell me, who the f** (yes, chef!) wants to learn to cook calf brains? You call these rhymes raw? (no, chef!) They're stale and soft Now, here, take this jacket… Now give it back and f** off! [Verse 4: Julia Child] Oh please, your defeat's guaranteed Concede, I've got this in the bag, sous-vide (ha!) Michelin indeed, you've done well for yourself But as a person, you couldn't get a star on Yelp I could freeze a steak with those frosted tips What's with that bitter taste in every word from your lips? You scream at women, but the fits that you're pitching Make you the pissiest b**h in the kitchen I'll pat you on the head, melt you, and stick it to ya Anything's good with enough bu*ter, boo-yah! Oh, I'm so glad you spent this time with me Now eat a dick, bon appétit [Outro] WHO WON? WHO'S NEXT? YOU DECIDE! EPIC RAP BATTLES OF HISTORY!