b.o.b ☆ Not for Long

Intro:
1,2,
1,2,3

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