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[Dre] |
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1, 2.. 1, 2, 3; yeah! |
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In-slum-national, underground |
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Thunder pounds when I stomp the ground (Woo!) |
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Like a million elephants and silverback orangutans |
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You can't stop a train |
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Who want some? Don't come un-pre-pared |
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I'll be there, but when I leave there |
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Better be a household name |
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Weather man tellin' us it ain't gon' rain |
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So now we sittin' in a drop-top, soaking wet |
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In a silk suit, tryin' not to sweat |
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Hits somersaults without the net |
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But this'll be the year that we won't forget |
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One-Nine-Nine-Nine, Anno Domini anything goes, be whatchu wanna be |
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Long as you know consequences, to give and for livin' |
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The fence is too high to jump in jail |
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Too low to dig, I might just touch hell |
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HOT! Get a life, now they on sale |
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Then I might cast you a spell, look at what came in the mail |
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A scale and some Arm and Hammer, soul gold grill and some baby mama |
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Black Cadillac and a pack of pampers |
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Stack of question with no answers |
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Cure for cancer, cure for AIDS |
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Make a nigga wanna stay on tour for days |
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Get back home, things are wrong |
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Well not really it was bad all along |
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before he left adds up, to a ball of power |
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Thoughts at a thousands miles per hour |
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Hello, ghetto, let your brain breathe, |
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believe there's always more, ahhhhh! |
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[Chorus: 2X] |
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[Dre] Don't pull the thang out, unless you plan to bang |
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[Choir] Bombs over Baghdad! |
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[Dre] Yeah! Ha ha yeah! |
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Don't even bang unless you plan to hit something |
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[Choir] Bombs over Baghdad! |
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[Dre] Yeah! Uhh-huh |
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[Big Boi] |
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Uno, dos, tres, it's on |
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Did you ever think a pimp rock a microphone? |
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Like that there boy and we still stay street |
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Big things happen every time we meet |
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Like a track team, crack fiend, dying to geek |
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Outkast bumpin' up and down the street |
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Slant back, Cadillac, 'bout five nigga deep |
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Seventy-five MC's freestylin' to the beat |
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Cause we get crunk, stay crunk, at the club |
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Should have bought an ounce, but you copped a dub |
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Should have held back, but you throwed the punch |
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'Spose to meet your girl but you packed a lunch |
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No D to-the U to-the G for you |
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Got a son on the way by the name of Bamboo |
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Got a little baby girl four year, Jordan |
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Never turn my back on my kids for them |
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Should have hit it (hit it) quit it (quit it) rag (rag) top (top) |
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Before you RE up, get a laptop |
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Make a business for yourself, boy, set some goals |
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Make a fat diamond out of dusty coals |
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Record number four, but we on the road |
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Hold up, slow up, stop, control |
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Like Janet, Planets, Stankonia is on ya |
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A movin' like Floyd commin' straight to Florida |
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Lock all your windows then block the corridors |
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Pullin' off on bell 'cause a whippings in order |
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I like a three piece fish before I cut your daughter |
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Yo quiero Taco Bell, then I hit the border |
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Pity PAT rappers tryin' to get the five |
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I'm a microphone fiend tryin' to stay alive |
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When you come to ATL boi you better not hide |
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cause the Dungeon Family gon' ride, hah! |
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[Chorus: 2X] |
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[Dre] Don't pull the thang out, unless you plan to bang |
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[Choir] Bombs over Baghdad! |
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[Dre] Yeah! Ha ha yeah! |
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Don't even bang unless you plan to hit something |
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[Choir] Bombs over Baghdad! |
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[Dre] Yeah! Uhh-huh |
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[Choir] |
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Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah |
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Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah |
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Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah |
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Bombs over Baghdad! Yeah |
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[Dre] |
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B-I-G, B-O-I |
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An-An-Andre |
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To the T-O-P |
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[Dre and Big Boi: 15X] |
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Bob your head. Rag top. |
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(1, 2.. 1, 2, 3, 4) (Gimme some) |
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[Choir: 23X] |
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Power music. Electric revival. |