Lyrical Breakdown of Yellow Tape - A Journey through Words and Rhymes

Welcome to the detailed analysis of "Yellow Tape" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.

• Lyric Overview: Witness how Fat Joe weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "Yellow Tape" 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 Fat Joe 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 Fat Joe's narrative.

This lyrical analysis of "Yellow Tape" not only celebrates Fat Joe'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!

Attention please, attention please This feel like the whole entire world collapsed Uh, this that yellow tape shit, they keep running out of it We just sold like 8 bricks, we ain't running out of it This our fucking hood, bitch, run yo' ass up out of it This gun come with eight clips, shoot 'til I run out of it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it I got it, I got it This that yellow tape shit, me, I'm 'bout to go ape shit Got eight chicks on eight molly's and they about to take eight trips Dice game, eight trips, got a Houston Rocket from J Prince She get it poppin', I'm a send her shopping and that ain't even my main bitch Home invasions, live action, smoker Joe, I'm hijacking Wrote the dope had my dough, I'll be there, Five Jackson Sin City, K.O.D., hundred thousand all in one's Versace jacket, Versace shoes, Versace shades, I got a rhousand son's Mama, you the shit, I'll pay your car note Why you fucking with him? Even his car broke We rocking Balmain's down to the cargo's Your bitch so thirsty, Murcielago This that yellow tape shit, they keep running out of it We just sold like 8 bricks, we ain't running out of it This our fucking hood, bitch, run yo' ass up out of it This gun come with eight clips, shoot 'til I run out of it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it (yeah, whoop, whoop) I got it, I got it (whoop) Call me Joey, I'm a Bada$$, Harlem world like Baghdad Come through with a black flag and Supreme Vans, the Half Cabs Bitches on that Pad-ad, fuck her with her fat ass I get-gets my dick licked, my friends hit (that's swag swag) What the fuck you mean, I be sitting clean, sipping lean Alexander Wang, that's the fucking jeans, triple beam When I serve the fiends, hit you with the beam, chopper scream Leave a nigga dead fucking with the team, magazine Choo-choo that train go, drink slow, my chain gold Soo-woo or you true blue, don't get your block yellow taped off Eight bricks get it shaved off, yeen' ho yeen' know Range Rove or the bankroll I'll shoot you, then change clothes This that yellow tape shit, they keep running out of it We just sold like 8 bricks, we ain't running out of it This our fucking hood, bitch, run yo' ass up out of it This gun come with eight clips, shoot 'til I run out of it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it (Montana) I got it, I got it You know we loaded with them choppers by the hundred, boy When you talk about that work, you niggas unemployed White work, I got it, brown work, I got it Two chains, show your titty, ho, damn right, I got it Just copped about 8 bricks, just copped about 8 whips Copped work from Saint Nick, your whole stash like eight nicks Smoke that loud and keep it quiet, let that money talk (haan) Get that brown bag and I skate off like I'm Tony Hawk Benz drop my top back, your bitch look, I slide that To the South Bronx and I pop that She call you for that ride back (haan) South Bronx we got it, Joe Crack we got it Black card no limit, ho, damn right we 'bout it Coke Boy (Joe Crack) This that yellow tape shit, they keep running out of it We just sold like 8 bricks, we ain't running out of it This our fucking hood, bitch, run yo' ass up out of it This gun come with eight clips, shoot 'til I run out of it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it Work, work, work, I got it I got it, I got it