B.O.B. - Clean Album Version de Outkast

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 A Town,
boy you better not hide.
'Cause the Dungeon Family gon' ride,
HA!