Lyrical Breakdown of fried chicken - A Journey through Words and Rhymes
Welcome to the detailed analysis of "fried chicken" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.
- Lyric Overview: Witness how Busta Rhymes weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "fried chicken" is a testament to masterful songwriting.
- Rhyme and Rhythm Analysis: Our Lazyjot editor highlights the ingenious use of multi-syllabic rhymes and the rhythm pattern that Busta Rhymes employs. Understand the construction of each verse and how it contributes to the song's overall impact.
- Syllable Pattern Insights: Dive deeper into the structural elements of the lyrics. See how the syllable count varies across the song, adding a unique rhythm and flow to Busta Rhymes's narrative.
This lyrical analysis of "fried chicken" not only celebrates Busta Rhymes's artistic prowess but also serves as an educational tool for aspiring songwriters. If this analysis inspires you and you'd like to see your own songs analyzed in this way, join the Lazyjot community. Register at Lazyjot and start exploring the full potential of your lyrical creativity. Turn your thoughts into rhymes and your rhymes into songs with Lazyjot!
Uh, Lord, Lord, Jah
What I'm gon' do?
Uh, shhh
Lord, Lord, Jah, shit is all true
Mmmm, fried chicken, fly vixen
Give me heart disease but need you in my kitchen
You a bird but you ain't a key
Got wings but you can't fly away from me
Drivin' in your bucket seats all the way from Kentucky to fuck with me
Look what you done to me, was number one to me
After you shower, you and your gold medal flower
Then you rub your hot oil for 'bout a half an hour
You in your hot tub, I'm lookin' at you salivatin'
Dry you off, I got your paper towel waitin'
Lay you down 'cause you're red hot
Louisiana style, you make my head rock
Then I flop to the bed then plop
When we done I need rest
Don't know what part of you I love best
Your legs or your breasts
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you gon' be a nigga death
Created by Southern black women to serve massive guests
You gon' be a nigga death
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you was my addiction
Drippin' with high cholest'
Like Greeks with his falafel, Italians with his tomato pasta
What roti is to a rasta, trappin' me
You and your friend mac and cheese, candied yams, collard greens
But you knockin' me to my knees
It's killin' me when I'm this high
Nothin' I need more than a fish fry
Shit, it tastes good, I can't lie
It's like you walkin' out the tanning salon
When I pull you out the oven from bakin'
I got you on my mind
Rubbin' that suntan lotion all up over your body
So amazin' how you sparkle when I glaze you, swine
Hey, my pretty ham hock
It's so feminine the way you submitted and how you gave me power
To massage your meat and shower you with lemon water
Marinate you in seasonin', dippin' you in chowder
Baby, it's like you at the spa the way you gently lay in the pan
While enjoying your buttermilk treatment
I sit and watch the grease sizzle, bubblin' on your skin
Despite the funny fragrance, still I lick my finger frequent
In any event
I'm reflectin' on all the signs that I
Got sayin' that I shouldn't fuck with you
But the way that you would taste make you hard to resist
When I put my mouth on you, but that's another issue
Butterflies up in my stomach when I laid eyes on you
Or was it infection manifestin'?
Confused over the feelin'
Impatiently eatin' you, Trakeena Worm
Chewin' on the wall of my intestine
I'ma eat you 'til there's nothin' left
'Til my very last breath
You gon' be a nigga death
Despite I prepare it the best
And specialize in cookin' swine as a chef
You gon' be a nigga death
Who cares if the swine's mixed with rat, cat, and dog combined?
Yes, I'ma eat the shit to death
Ain't that some shit?
I'ma eat some shit until what I'm eatin' kills me
And I choose to do that
Why? 'Cause that's just what niggas do