Fried Chicken Nas (Ft. Busta Rhymes)
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "Fried Chicken" by Nas (Ft. Busta Rhymes). Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.
[Intro: Nas]
Uhh, Lord, Lord, Jah
What I'm gon' do?
Uhh, schhh, Lord, Lord, Jah
Hahaha, shit is all true
[Verse 1: Nas]
Mmm, fried chicken, fly vixen
Give me heart disease but need you in my kitchen
You a bird but you ain't a ki'
Got wings but you can't fly away from me
Driving 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 flour
Then you rub your hot oil for 'bout a half an hour
You in your hot tub, I'm looking at you salivating
Dry you off, I got your paper towel waiting
Lay you down 'cause you're red hot
Louisiana style, you make my head rot
Then I flock 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 breast
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you gon' be a nigga death
Created by southern black women to serve massa' guest
You gon' be a nigga death
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you was my addiction
Dripping with high cholest'
Like Greeks with his falafel, Italian with his tomato pasta
What roti is to a rasta
Trapping me, you and your friend mac' and cheese
Candy yams, collard greens but you knocking me to my knees
It's killing me when I'm this high, nothing I need more than a fish fry
Uhh, Lord, Lord, Jah
What I'm gon' do?
Uhh, schhh, Lord, Lord, Jah
Hahaha, shit is all true
[Verse 1: Nas]
Mmm, fried chicken, fly vixen
Give me heart disease but need you in my kitchen
You a bird but you ain't a ki'
Got wings but you can't fly away from me
Driving 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 flour
Then you rub your hot oil for 'bout a half an hour
You in your hot tub, I'm looking at you salivating
Dry you off, I got your paper towel waiting
Lay you down 'cause you're red hot
Louisiana style, you make my head rot
Then I flock 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 breast
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you gon' be a nigga death
Created by southern black women to serve massa' guest
You gon' be a nigga death
Mrs. Fried Chicken, you was my addiction
Dripping with high cholest'
Like Greeks with his falafel, Italian with his tomato pasta
What roti is to a rasta
Trapping me, you and your friend mac' and cheese
Candy yams, collard greens but you knocking me to my knees
It's killing me when I'm this high, nothing I need more than a fish fry
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