Joy (feat. Mike Jones) lyrics

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