Yolk John Wick

Michael in the Supra, red paint drippin’, lava flow,

Egg crates in the backseat, gold yolks like a treasure trove.

Got a call from a buyer, said, “Meet me on the low,”

But the tone felt scrambled, something 'bout it didn’t glow.

Parking lot shadows, headlights cut through the haze,

Suitcase in his grip, but his handshake betrays.

Said, “You bring the dozen?” Mike grinned, “Always fresh,”

But the buyer pulled a Glock, said, “Hand 'em over, the rest.”

Tires screech in his mind before they hit the ground,

He ain’t one to back down, nah, he’s battlin' for the crown.

1300 horses roar, like thunder in the night,

Eggs in the back, and Michael’s prepped to fight.

Eggs in the back, shells don’t crack,

Pedal to the floor, never lookin’ back.

Gunshots rain, but Mike’s too slick,

Egg cartel king, he’s the yolk John Wick.

Highway lit in fire, neon trails, a blazing storm,

Choppers in the rearview, chaos taking form.

He shifts into sixth, turbo growl, like a lion’s roar,

Feds closing in, and he’s laughing at the score.

A bullet grazes glass, cracks spiderweb the pane,

Michael flips a switch, NOS flames in his veins.

Skids through a corner, flips a crate into his hand,

Tosses an egg through the air like a grenade—so grand.

He said, “Clutch the eggs, we ain’t crackin’ tonight,”

Rubber burns loud, red streak in the night.

Egg shells crack, but not his will,

Red Supra flying, he's born to thrill.

Gunshots ring, but he won’t fold,

Michael’s story, legend told.

Engines screamin’, turbo spit like a dragon,

Rivals on his six, but Mike never laggin’.

Shift gears smooth, steering tight as a knot,

Every corner drift, make 'em all lose the plot.

Hollow points fly, windows shatter like ice,

Michael’s hands steady, nerves colder than heist.

Pistol in one hand, other hand on the wheel,

Cracked shells on his trail, bad luck on their heels.

Eggs in the back, shells don’t crack,

Pedal to the floor, never lookin’ back.

Gunshots rain, but Mike’s too slick,

Egg cartel king, he’s the yolk John Wick.

Michael in the Supra, red paint drippin’, lava flow,

Egg crates in the backseat, gold yolks like a treasure trove.

Got a call from a buyer, said, “Meet me on the low,”

But the tone felt scrambled, something 'bout it didn’t glow.

Parking lot shadows, headlights cut through the haze,

Suitcase in his grip, but his handshake betrays.

Said, “You bring the dozen?” Mike grinned, “Always fresh,”

But the buyer pulled a Glock, said, “Hand 'em over, the rest.”

Tires screech in his mind before they hit the ground,

He ain’t one to back down, nah, he’s battlin' for the crown.

1300 horses roar, like thunder in the night,

Eggs in the back, and Michael’s prepped to fight.

Eggs in the back, shells don’t crack,

Pedal to the floor, never lookin’ back.

Gunshots rain, but Mike’s too slick,

Egg cartel king, he’s the yolk John Wick.

Highway lit in fire, neon trails, a blazing storm,

Choppers in the rearview, chaos taking form.

He shifts into sixth, turbo growl, like a lion’s roar,

Feds closing in, and he’s laughing at the score.

A bullet grazes glass, cracks spiderweb the pane,

Michael flips a switch, NOS flames in his veins.

Skids through a corner, flips a crate into his hand,

Tosses an egg through the air like a grenade—so grand.

He said, “Clutch the eggs, we ain’t crackin’ tonight,”

Rubber burns loud, red streak in the night.

Egg shells crack, but not his will,

Red Supra flying, he's born to thrill.

Gunshots ring, but he won’t fold,

Michael’s story, legend told.

Engines screamin’, turbo spit like a dragon,

Rivals on his six, but Mike never laggin’.

Shift gears smooth, steering tight as a knot,

Every corner drift, make 'em all lose the plot.

Hollow points fly, windows shatter like ice,

Michael’s hands steady, nerves colder than heist.

Pistol in one hand, other hand on the wheel,

Cracked shells on his trail, bad luck on their heels.

Eggs in the back, shells don’t crack,

Pedal to the floor, never lookin’ back.

Gunshots rain, but Mike’s too slick,

Egg cartel king, he’s the yolk John Wick.