B.O.B. (Bombs Over Baghdad) |
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B.O.B. (Bombs Over Baghdad) Lyrics |
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 Verse 1: Yeah! Inslumnational Underground. Thunder pounds, when I stomp the ground.(Wooh) Like a million elephants, or silver back Orangutangs, you can`t stop the train. Who wants some? Don`t come unprepared. I`ll be there, but when I leave there. Better be a household name. The weatherman tellin` us it ain`t gon` rain. So now we sittin in a droptop, soaking wet. In a silk suit trying not to sweat. Hittin` somersaults with- out the net. But this`ll be the year that we wont forget. 1-9-9-9! Anno Domini, anything goes! Be what you want to be, long as you know consequences are given for liv- ing 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 want to stay on tour for days. Get back home, thangs are wrong. Well not really it was bad all along. Before your 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 mo` (Owwww!) Hook: Don`t pull the thang out, unless you plan to bang. (Bombs over Baghdad, yeah!) Don`t even bang, unless you plan to hit something. (Bombs over Baghdad, yeah!) [Repeat x2] Verse2: 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, about five niggaz deep. Seventy-five MC`s, freestyling to the beat. `Cause we get crunk, stay drunk at the club. Should`ve bought an ounce, but you copped a dub. Should`ve held back, but you threw 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 years, Jordan. Never turned my back on my kids for them. Should`ve hit it, quit it, rag top. Before you RE up, get a laptop. Make a buisiness for yourself, boy, set some goals. Make a fat diamond out of dusty coals. Record number four, but we on the road. Hold up, slow up, stop, control. Like Janet, Planet Stankonia`s, on ya. Moving like Floyd, comin` straight to Florida. Lock all your windows, then block the corridors. Pullin off my belt, `cause a whippings in order. I`d like a three-piece fish, before I cut your daughter. Yo quiero Taco Bell, then I hit the border. Piti pat rappers trying 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, HA! [Hook] Break Down: Bob your head, rag top. [Repeat x16] [Hook x3] |
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