Скачать OutKast Tomb of the bomb(feat. Ludacris) бесплатно в mp3

Speakerboxxx
Yo (Yo)
Just so you all know what time it is, it's your homeboy
Straight from the A-T
Tch— I ain't even goin say the motherfucking rest
But you know
It's Dungeon Family all day long, baby
We finna break it off with some fresh, new shit
Yah, yah, yah, yah

This rap game lovely (Okay)
Konkrete play a part 'cause the Feds want to bug me
Athletes want to be rappers, shawty, trust me
Bending corners in the Benz, riding like a bucket (Fire another)
Nigga, fuck it
I know some hoes slutty
I auctioned a bitch off like a nigga playin rugby
I done seen a ghetto meal, little buddy, trust me
Jump European, came clean through customs (Uh-huh)
No questions (Yup)
Perpetrators
In the booth, rapping lame, like they drug-related (What?)
It made me sick to my stomach, lost a two-and-a-baby
You don't grind, you be lying, should be castrated
Lorena Bobbitt, maybe? Yeah

Tomb after tomb, boom-boom after boom
Serving up emotion once you deep inside the tomb
Embryo to newborn, you can feel me in the womb (Woo)
Cool, ooh, that's cool (Alright, yeah)

You see, I cock back glocks, got more pull than slingshots
Hit G-spots, I'm giving hoes back-shots
I'm a young country boy, long socks with flip-flops
But I pull up on your block in the 500 Benz drop
Konkrete, Aquemini, we taking this here to the top
Bust like balloons—who gives a damn if it goes pop?
You say it's hot? Well, let me turn it up another notch
To my real niggas, won't you pump this out your Speakerboxxx? (Your Speakerboxxx)
Fuck the cops—we making noise, and we won't stop
"Bump, bump"—there goes the boom and it's gon' drop
Old school, big shoes, nigga, no socks (Yeah)
We keep tools, see fools, bullets will flock

They call me "Mr. Ravioli," "Mr. Streudel"
"Mr. Poke 'Em with the Noodle"
"Mr. Cockerspaniel in your Poodle"
After-school tutor, Roto-Rooter, addicted to Follies
Light-brown collars, Sta-Sof-Fro crows
Swimming in the fallopian of an Ethiopian
Talking a different language, RBI fly wide
Talk to me now
Eighty-four hard, eighty-four soft with me now
Beautiful ladies, they want to walk with me now, talk with me now
Pussy-pop for me now, sell cock for me now
Fight a bitch, hit her in the eye for me now
See you when I see you—now, I'm out with me now, yo

Tomb after tomb, boom-boom after boom
Serving up emotion once you deep inside the tomb
Embryo to newborn, you can feel me in the womb
Cool, ooh, that's cool

I will never fall off, I haul off heavy weight (Weight)
Fuck with me, dog; I chop you up like Norman Bates (Bates)
I'm true to this shit, I ain't new to this shit
Over a million sold on strictly weed, bricks (Bricks)
Flame-able like gasoline when I'm lit up
I prefer my liquor dark and a mean, white slut (Slut)
It's over for you capping-ass rappers—get out the game
You can fool the record labels, but not the streets, man
I just tell it how I see it, nigga: Facts is facts
The first verse I ever wrote, I got a Platinum plaque
I've been to Hell and back, so, nigga, give me my props
Konkrete, Big Boi, beating through your Speakerboxxx, yeah!

Tomb after tomb, boom, boom after boom
Serving up emotion once you deep inside the tomb
From embryo to newborn, you can feel me in the womb
Cool, ooh, that's cool (Ha!)

Ludacris, yeah, I keep a Glock in case you like to leak a lot
Meanwhile, crankin' the volume knob up on my Speakerboxxx (Woo)
So hear ye: "Get the fuck on the ground!"
It's just a phrase you might hear strolling through the A-Town (A-Town)
They don't believe that, we'll stab them in the abdomen
From College Park, Georgia to College Park, Maryland (That's right)
So put your fist up, boy, you wanna romp?
You can Bankhead Bounce or get Eastside Stomped (Woo)
Thinking way back before I got mine
Putting bullet-holes through the neighborhood stop signs
Still wild is my adrenaline (Ugh), yes, ladies and gentlemen
Dinninin! A hundred thou', bitch! Diamonds shimmerin' (Ugh)
Catch me with a sack of dro, reaching for "The Strap Below"
Or with some nasty hoes, eating pistachios
Y'all driving Subarus, stuck in your cubicles
I'm stuck in the air with weed crumbs under my cuticles

Tomb after tomb, boom, boom after boom
Serving up emotion once you deep inside the tomb
From embryo to newborn, you can feel me in the womb
Cool, ooh, that's cool

Fourth and goal
Should I take the three-point field goal for the score?
Or should I roll
Around and take the ball up the middle
The gut—the what—the hole
Cranium overload, overthrowed
Now we got seven more
Points on the board, fa' sho'
B-I-G B-O-I, me, oh, my, I think He's blessing me
Excelling in harmonious melody, boy we got the recipe
Like Ragu, it's in there, giving you some of the best of me
Playa-pimp-gangsta-poet
We gon' spit it, we gon' show it to your ass
"You're a champion" were my dad's last words before he passed
But I know one day, we will once more cross paths
They say, "Big Boi, can you pull it off without your nigga Dre?"
I say, "People, stop the madness, 'cause me and Dre, we okay"
OutKast: "Cell Therapy" to cell division
We done split it down the middle so you can see both the visions
Been spitting damn near ten years—why the fuck would we be quitting?
Fuck nigga!