Tomb of the Boom (feat. Konkrete, Big Gipp & Ludacris)

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!