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Joy (feat. Mike Jones) letra


Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, hey, hello? Who is it?
(Boy Scouts!)
Oh, no, don't you know? Don't ever disturb a woman when she's cooking her favorite recipe–
(Hey, lady, look, this a Jack move)
Fried chicken, pork chops, chitlins, collard greens, what's wrong with you, eh?
I have to get back to the kitchen, my cabbage is burning
(Yeah, I want da cabbage and collard greens, all of it, right now)
Besides, you're making me miss my favorite episode of Fear Factor
I wonder if the ribs are done
You boys want to know chef's favorite recipe for musicals?
(I don't wanna know no chef recipe, go 'head, get the pump, go on 'n get the pump)
Well, I tell you, you take a half a teaspoon of Mary J and Ciara, with a dash of Slick Rick
(Yeah, yeah, he gon' come back with the burner, yeah, I'ma stick, yeah, ok)
(Well, you play, play, I'm back, oh, I'm back, now, what now?)
It's easy as 1-2-3, play, next, you mix Rhemario and Qu'ran in a Bangladesh-style bowl to make some Nisan Stew, mix some Campbell's soup
(And then?)
I prefer Warren-style myself, personally, add a pinch of Fantasia
(And then?)
With a Gran-sized Puba, then you sprinkle one Scoop Fatman throughout, to add flavor, and a dab of Soul Diggaz
Then, you throw a tablespoon of Timbaland, and half-a-Neptune, smothered in hot Scott Storch dressing
(We gon' smotha' you in some hot sauce, some hot whatever you said)
And you serve with a side order of Mike Jones
(Mike Jones, who? Mike Jones, who?)
It's best served with a cold St. Nick brew, whichever you prefer
And there you have it, kiddies, this is my perfect recipe for a delicious meal, enjoy

Joy
(Oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh)
Joy
Joy
Oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh
(So sick)
Joy
(Oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh)

Timbo, what they do? They try to be like Missy but they have no clue
On how I'm spittin' over beats, the way I move
I move so smooth in my shell-toed shoes
Now, put the needle on the record, show 'n prove

Since ninety-two, I came to win and never lose
They tried to stop a chubby chick from comin'-through
My belly out 'n sellin'-out these venues
My skills will fulfill those who drink booze

My attitude is supah' cool, like I'm subdued
And those who fake, I take on you and ya dudes
I rule the streets, I break 'em down wit' no tools
And Misdemeanor give the finger to y'all fools (holla)

Whoever doubted that I'm 'bout it, check the news
And if you snooze on me this year, your ass'll lose
'Cause I will bruise, my loose screws is like, ooh
When I come out, get ya release dates moved

This year, y'all gon' all lose sleep
Break 'em off somethin', break 'em off somethin'
This year, y'all gon' all lose sleep
This year, y'all gon' all lose sleep
When I break 'em off somethin'
Break 'em off somethin' (big shoutout to Timbaland)
This year, ya hear a real MC
When I break-break-break-break-break–

I flow over a beat that make a chick weave blow
And those who try to compete, to the wall I throw
So I drop it low, 808, kick-low
Like, oh, oh-oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh

Mister Mose, this beat he composed
While I kill the track, leave ya ears decomposed
Fake rappers, this year, your lies will be exposed
Like, oh, oh-oh, oh, oh, Missy, steal the show, oh-oh

Spit on break beats, make rappers lose sleep
Make labels unable, drop their artists on-leak
I keep 'em knee-deep, need me, be me
Hardly and, basically, I do it nice 'n slow-oh-oh

I'm slowin' the track down
So you don't miss the shit that Misdemeanor talkin'
Like that chronic get ya supah' high

This year, y'all gon' all lose sleep
Break 'em off somethin', break 'em off somethin'
This year, ya hear a real MC
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh
This year, y'all gon' all lose sleep (Mike Jones, who?)
When I break 'em off somethin', break 'em off somethin' (Mike Jones, who? Mike Jones)
This year, ya hear a real MC (yeah)
Break 'em off somethin', break 'em off somethin'

See, I'm a pimp that's on my grind
I hustle, like, all the time
I speak what's on my mind
My teeth'll make ya blind
My heat'll lay ya down
Whenever ya come around
Forsaken out there, mistreated
Your life'll be deleted

'Cause I don't play dat, you know I don't play dat
Wherever you talkin' noise is where you gon' lay at
I'm Supa Dupa Fly, like Missy-Missy
Befo' da fame, majors used to diss me

But now, I'm on top, I'm hot 'n I can't stop
Before my deal came, my shows sold not
House been on da hill, diamonds been in my grill
I'm trill, like UGK, you know I keep it real

I'm who? Mike Jones, who? Mike Jones
Who? Mike Jones, and I can't be cloned
281-330-8004, that's my cell phone number
Hit me on the low, I got

Hold-up, I see a lot of folks in here, sittin' around like your shoes too tight
If you wear a size ten, don't cram yo' shit up in a size six, ladies
Be proud of yo' big-ass feet
We came to party up in this bitch

Missy Elliott - Letras

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