[Verse 1] He came from a pot with a boiling beat, Al dente tough, bringin’ reggae heat. Tomato shades and a spicy grin, With shells in his pocket and trouble within. Fettu-rasta with a peppery plan, Got noodles for dreads and a frying pan. He don’t run — he slides with ease, In marinara boots and parmesan sleeves. [Chorus] Rasta Pasta — don’t mess with the dish, He’s loaded with spice and a gangster wish. Macaroni mind, cannelloni soul, He stirs the street in a pasta roll. Rasta Pasta — sauced and armed, One look from him and you’ll be charmed… or harmed. [Verse 2] He smokes oregano, speaks in rhyme, Carries hot sauce like it’s a crime. Bounty on his head from the kitchen crew, But he vanished in steam like ragù do. He robbed a fridge, then kissed a spoon, Taught ravioli to sing in tune. Every time he enters the scene, The meatballs duck and the dishes scream. [Chorus] Rasta Pasta — dreadlocks boil, With bullets made from olive oil. He’s got that look, that sauce, that sting, He’s the don of the culinary ring. Rasta Pasta — legend, myth, Half linguine, half apocalypse. [Bridge – dramatic, whispered] They say if you hear bubbling late at night… He’s comin’ for you… with garlic bite. [Final Chorus] Rasta Pasta — born to sizzle, Sharp like a fork and quick to drizzle. He’s the outlaw with the kitchen crown, Riding lasagna straight outta town. Rasta Pasta — spicy and rude, The most wanted man… who’s technically food.
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