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Fat Joe

Joseph Antonio Cartagena (born August 19, 1970), better known by his stage name Fat Joe, is an American rapper, CEO of Terror Squad Entertainment, and member of musical groups D.I.T.C. and Terror Squad. more »

4:20

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Fire, fire, fire, fire
Fire, fire, fire, fire
Fireeeeeeee
Buckwild on this shit right here
Ahh!

Terror Squad, what?
Terror Squad, what?
Terror Squad, what?
Terror Squad, what?
Terror Squad, what?
Terror Squad, what?

Hey yo, I spit like my mouth was a MAC
Hit 'em with that Pun flow, everything sound like "Platt"
Rapid fire, call the cops
Another rapper down, he's been lyrically shot
I talk sideways just like you
Difference is, the shit that I be spittin' is true
We from the hood and we never see you
A Bronx Tale
Look what the streets made Calogero do
Now Joe quit rappin', Hell gon' freeze then
Shit, well that's like Lebron leavin'
Some ghost write and get it in lyrically
But I'm that nigga you call for credibility
If you righteous, I spit it mathematically
You not good enough, get your mans to come battle me
I spit rounds off
I squeeze pounds off
You niggas hot, I'ma get the f*ck from around y'all
Word to mother, y'all niggas is hot, man, get the f*ck away from me, man

Spit, get our rounds off
Put pounds on (Fireeeeee)
Hear sirens sound off
Speak to the streets, can't sound soft
Get your rounds off, but you gotta spit (Fireeeeee)
Spit your rounds off

Yeah, yeah, yeah!
You see the girl is crazy
They say she may be the female Jay-Z
I ain't talkin' 'bout 34th street if my jewels is Macy's, they great
All day I'm 'bout to go gold and no, I don't mean five hunnid thousand records sold
'Cause when it comes to those, you don't need a U-Haul for what I'm movin'
'Cause soon they gon' call me Miss First Week, one million units
I'm like, "F*ck what'chu done 'cause right now Remy is doin' it"
I'm on (Fireeeeee)
Shit, start callin' me human fuselage
I ain't new to this but I can't say I'm a veteran
But I could name every rapper, female or male, that I am better than
What? Yeah, huh, hah, him too
Ain't nobody spittin' this shit like Rem do
You see, this is for the listeners and prisoners
I'm still on my job so I could give y'all the business
My sixteens be so real you could feel 'em in your veins
It's Remymello mother f*ck Sugar Hill, nigga

Spit, get our rounds off
Put pounds on (Fireeeeee)
Hear sirens sound off
Speak to the streets, can't sound soft
Get your rounds off, but you gotta spit (Fireeeeee)
Spit your rounds off

Off the top, what
Yo, yo
F*ck the small talk, niggas know Pun keep the four cocked
Don't walk too fast, might pass through the wrong block
Don't stop, keep it movin'
The streets'll ruin the average man faster than the mother fuckin' Teamsters Union
We doin' dirt 'cause we gotta
Five dollar-a-hour, three tears in my motherfuckin' big momma
For six hour, got different plans
God knows I'm just a man
So hide your wrist if it's missin' there
Listen, man, we just niggas tryna work it out
Listen, friends, strictly business, nothin' person-al
We thirsty now and I ain't drinkin' outta plastic tubs
Platinum plus, crystal glasses with the fancy cups
Fancy us livin' life lavish, drippin' iced cabbage
Dippin' in the six with some white bad bitch
Tight package, I got a pass
I'm from the ghetto, nigga, I like a lotta ass
Word life, T-Squad holdin' it down
Nah'mean?

Spit, get our rounds off
Put pounds on (Fireeeeee)
Hear sirens sound off
Speak to the streets, can't sound soft
Get your rounds off but you gotta spit (Fireeeeee)
Spit your rounds off (Fireeeeee)
Spit your rounds off 
Spit your rounds off (Fireeeeee)
Spit your rounds off (Fireeeeee)
Spit your rounds off (Fireeeeee)

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