Burnt to Perfection lyrics

Alright, Steak2, step up to the grill—you're about to be well done

First off, why “Steak2”? Were you the backup plan? The sequel nobody asked for? You sound like the off-brand version of a real steak—like some microwaved gas station beef j*rky that got left in the sun too long. You built like an overcooked Salisbury steak from a middle school cafeteria, dry, flavorless, and universally disappointing

Your whole existence is like pressing “Skip” on a tutorial and then wondеring why you’re bad at life. You got the charisma of a damp spongе and the presence of an unplugged nightlight. If personality was a buffet, you'd be the cold, soggy fries that everyone avoids

Your style? A fashion disaster that looks like you lost a bet. Your WiFi connection probably got one bar, and even that bar is tired of you. Your life got more bugs than a Bethesda game at launch, and your jokes land softer than a pillow in zero gravity

You came here looking for a roast, and now you're getting slow-cooked, reverse-seared, and flame-grilled at the same time. Hope you brought some seasoning, ‘cause this is raw disrespect. Go ahead, take a seat before you get charred beyond recognition

Alright, Steak2, back on the grill you go—this time, I’m torching you to ash

First of all, why “Steak2”? You couldn't even be the original? You're the DLC nobody downloaded, the sequel that flopped so hard they canceled the franchise. You built like a defrosted TV dinner, served cold, unseasoned, and full of regret. If flavor was a personality, you'd be plain oatmeal

Your presence is so weak even ghosts ignore you. You walk into a room and the WiFi disconnects out of secondhand embarrassment. Your sense of humor is so dry, cacti take notes. If awkward silence was a person, it'd be you at a party—standing in the corner, buffering like a YouTube video on 2G

You out here dressing like your closet is stuck in 2009, still thinking cargo shorts and graphic tees with cringe slogans are peak fashion. You got the posture of a gaming chair that's been rage-quit on too many times. Your confidence is like your phone battery—always on 1% and dying at the worst moments

You asked for a roast, and now you're getting spit-roasted, pan-seared, and deep-fried in straight disrespect. Somebody get the fire extinguisher—oh wait, never mind, you're already burnt beyond recognition. Now take this L and marinate in your defeat