Lyrics
1, 2... 1, 2, 3; yeah!
In-slum-national, underground
Thunder pounds when I stomp the ground (Woo!)
Like a million elephants and silverback orangutans
You can't stop a train
Who want some? Don't come un-prepared
I'll be there, but when I leave there
Better be a household name
Weather man tellin' us it ain't gon' rain
So now we sittin' in a drop-top, soaking wet
In a silk suit, tryin' not to sweat
Hit somersaults without the net
But this'll be the year that we won't forget
One-Nine-Nine-Nine, Anno Domini, anything goes, be whatchu wanna be
Long as you know consequences are given for livin'
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 and Hammer, soul gold grill and some baby mama
Black Cadillac and a pack of Pampers
Stack of question 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
Before 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, ahhhhh!
Don't pull that thang out, unless you plan to bang
Bombs over Baghdad!
Yeah! Ha ha yeah!
Don't even bang unless you plan to hit something
Bombs over Baghdad!
Yeah! Uhh-huh
Uno, dos, tres, it's on
Did you ever think a pimp rock a microphone?
Like that there boy and we still stay street
Big things happen every time we meet
Like a track team, crack fiend, dying to geek
Outkast bumpin' up and down the street
Slant back Cadillac, 'bout five nigga deep
Seventy-five MC's freestylin' to the beat
'Cause we get crunk, stay crunk, at the club
Should have bought an ounce, but you copped a dub
Should have held back, but you throwed the punch
'Spose 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 years, Jordan
Never turned my back on my kids, there for them
Should have hit it, quit it, rag top
Before you re-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, Planet Stankonia is on ya
Movin' like Floyd comin' straight to Florida
Lock all your windows then block the corridors
Pullin' off my belt 'cause a whipping's in order
I like a three piece fish before I cut your daughter
Yo quiero Taco Bell, then I hit the border
Pity PAT rappers tryin' to get the five
I'm a microphone fiend tryin' to stay alive
When you come to ATL, boy, you better not hide
'Cause the Dungeon Family gon' ride, hah!
Don't pull the thang out, unless you plan to bang
Bombs over Baghdad!
Yeah! Ha ha yeah!
Don't even bang unless you plan to hit something
Bombs over Baghdad!
Yeah! Uhh-huh
Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah
Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah
Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah
Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah
B-I-G, B-O-I
An-An-Andre
To the T-O-P
Bob your head. Rag top.
(1, 2. 1, 2, 3, 4) (Gimme some)
Power music. Electric revival.