OUTKAST B.O.B. (BOMBS OVER BAGHDAD) LYRICS

Verse One (Andre):
Yeah... Intro-national, underground,
Thunder bounce when I stomp the ground, (Whoo!)
Like a million elephants or silverback orangutans,
You can't stop my train,
Who want some, Don't come unprepaired,
I'll be there, but when I leave there,
Better be a house on Maine,
Weatherman tellin' us it ain't gon' rain,
So now we sittin' in a drop-top soakin' wet,
In a silk suit, tryin' not to sweat,
Hittin' somersaults without the net,
But this'll be the year that we won't forget,
One-nine-nine-nine, And around me anything goes,
Be what you wanna be, Long as you know,
Consequenses are given,
For livin' defensless,
Too hot to jump in jail,
Too low to dig, I might just touch hell, (HOT!)
Get a life, now they on sale,
Then I might catch you a spell, Look at what came in the mail,
A scale and some Arm & Hammer,
Charcoal grill and a baby mamma,
Black Cadillac and a pack of pampers,
Stack of questions, wit' 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,
Fo' you left assed out to a ball of power,
Lost at a thousand miles per hour,
Hello, ghetto, let yo' brain' free,
Believe there's always mo'... Ooowww!!!

Chorus:
Don't pull the thang out unless you plan to bang...
Bombs over Baghdad, yeah...
Don't even bang unless you plan to hit some-thang...
Bombs over Baghdad, yeah...
(Repeat)


[ B.o.b. (bombs Over Baghdad) lyrics brought to you by LyricsYouLove ]


Verse Two (Big Boi):
Uno, dos, tres, it's on,
Did ya ever think a pimp rock the microphone,
Like that there, boi, but we still stay street,
Big thangs happen every time we meet,
Like a track team, craft ain't dyin' a geek,
Outkast bumpin' up and down the streets,
Slam back Cadillac, 'bout five ...(Blank)...
75 emcees fresstylin' to the beat,
'Cause we get crunk, stay crunk at the club,
Should of bought a ounce, but ya caught the dubs,
Shoulda held back, but ya throwed the punch,
'Posed to meet ya girl, but ya packed the lunch,
No G-to-the-U-to-the-G fa you,
Got a son on the way by the name of Bamboo,
Got a little baby girl for a year, Jordan,
Never turn my back on my kids for them,
Shoulda hit it... Quit it... Rag top...
Before ya reek up, get a lab... top
Make a business for yourself, boy, sell some golds,
Make a phat diamond outta dust and coal,
Record number four, but we on a roll,
Hold up, slow up, stop, control,
Like Janet, planet, Stankonia, it's on ya,
Movin' like Floyd, comin' straight to Florida,
Block all ya windows and block the corridors,
Pullin' off my belt 'cause the women's in order,
Like three piece fish, boy I cut ya daughter,
Yo quiero Taco Bell, then I hit the border,
Pity pap rapper, tryin' to get to five,
I'm a microphone fiend, tryin' to stay alive,
When ya come to ATL, boy, ya bet' not hide,
'Cause the Dungeon Family gon' ride... HAH!

Chorus

Guitar solo...


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