(One, two, one, two, three, yeah)
Andre
In-slum-national, underground,
Thunder pounds when I stomp the ground.
Like a million elephants or silverback orangutans,
You can't stop a train
Who want some, don't come unprepared
I'll be there, but, when I leave there,
Better be a household name
Weatherman telling us it ain't gon' rain
So now we sitting in a drop-top, soaking wet
In a silk suit trying not to sweat
Hit somersaults without the net,
But this'll be the year that we won't forget
1-9-9-9, anno domini
Anything goes; be what you wanna be,
'Long as you know consequences are given for living
The fence is too high to jump in jail
Too low to dig, I might just touch Hell
Hot
Get a life, now they on sale
Then I might cast you a spell
Look at what came in the mail,
A scale and some Arm & Hammer
Soul gold grill and a baby mamma,
Black Cadillac and a pack of Pampers,
Stack of questions with no answers,
Cure for cancer, cure for AIDS
Make a nigga wanna stay on tour for days
Get back home, things are wrong
Well, not really, it was bad all along
'Fore you left, adds up to a ball of power
Thoughts at a thousand miles per hour
Hello, ghetto, let your brain breathe
Believe there's always more
Don't pull the thing out unless you plan to bang
Bombs over Baghdad
Don't even bang unless you plan to hit something
Bombs over Baghdad
Big Boi
Uno, dos, tres, it's on
Did you ever think a pimp rock a microphone
Like that there boy and will still stay street?
Big things happen every time we meet
Like a track team, crack fiend, dying to geek
OutKast bumping up and down the street,
Slam back Cadillac 'bout five niggas deep
Seventy-five MCs free-styling to the beat
'Cause we get drunk, stay drunk at the club
Should've bought an ounce, but you caught the dub
Should've held back, but you throwed the punch
Supposed to meet your girl, but you packed a lunch
No D to the U to the G for you
Got a son on the way by the name of Bamboo
Got a little, baby girl, four year, Jordan
Never turn my back on my kids for them
Should've hit it, quit it, rag top
Before you read up, get a laptop
Make a business for yourself, boy. Set some goals
Make a fat diamond out of dusty coals
Record number four, but we on a roll
Hold up, slow up, stop, control
Like Janet, planets, Stankonia's on ya
Moving like Floyd, coming straight for Florida
Lock all your windows and block the quarters
Pulling off my belt 'cause a whipping's in order
Like a three-piece fist 'fore I cut your daughter
Yo quiero Taco Bell, then I hit the border
Penny pap rapper trying to get to five
I'm a microphone fiend trying to stay alive
When you come to ATL, boy, you better not hide
'Cause the Dungeon Family gon' ride Ha
Don't pull the thing out unless you plan to bang
Bombs over Baghdad
Don't even bang unless you plan to hit something
Bombs over Baghdad
Bombs over Baghdad, yeah
Bob your head, rag top
Power music, electric revival