Sole Sunday

[Verse 1: Big Gipp]

Yeah... yeah... yo

Gipp keep it slow poke

Hang out inside with no robe

Sit in the tub, flick the remote, and soak

Pull up, jump out, then I strut for 'em

And if anybody got problems, I'ma cut form

In this atmosphere, now you can disappear

Smoke thick, shells bail like tailbacks looking for holes

Drag my ass down the ave like a cab

Scar that ass, leave your shirt open like an Arab

Making money off these breakdown slabs

We got this zone, get your own

Better move on before your fork get split, you won't forget

The D.F. put it down, now get down or sit down

[Hook: André 3000, Khujo]

Sunday mornin'

Makеs me feel (Ah ah ah ah...)

So godly

Pardon me, if I shake your soul...

(Ah ah ah ah...) I got it... I got it, shawty, yеah (It's our ball! Uh!)

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya

[Verse 2: Khujo]

I tackle my problems, never run from my foes

Stiff-arm facemask, hit the juke button, then leave a sucka froze

Like he just tried to shove a whole ki' up in his nose

Oh naw, folks (Fo'!) – you hit 'em high, I hit 'em low, for this dough

Your heart gon' bust out here, 'cause we comin' full speed

With the intent to lift you up off of your feet

At the lift, of the glass, sippin' victory

Clean cut, but I stay dirty

Uhh – you play fair, I cheat

I spike this pig in yo' face, like you never stopped eatin' pork or beef

End diseases and careers

Tenacious on this gridiron, All-Pro Hall of Famer, with no fears

Blood, sweat, and tears! (Ohhh!)

[Interlude: André 3000]

So... (Ah...) yeah... (Ah ah ah ah...) yeah...

Sunday, yeah... yeah...

[Hook: André 3000]

Sunday mornin'

Makes me feel (Ah ah ah ah ah...)

So godly

Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Ah ah ah ah ah...)

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya

[Verse 3: André 3000]

The rich boy got that bag 'cause he is rich

The poor boy gotta bag 'cause he is poor

The bad boy got it bad 'cause he want both

The good girl got it good 'cause she got game

And runs it on undeveloped fellas considered lame

Same like mechanics do it, baby who need her Buick

Repaired, don't have no knowledge of what a brake shoe is

Make woo-ood turn to nickle, sperm and tickle

We wiggle, numb your emotions like a dill pickle

In autumn, fall, into the bottom of black holes

Make a left on nothingness 'cause that's where I'm at

Cold as summer; I got yo' number, you got my number

Let's add 'em, see what we come with, maybe we could slumber, like uh, Babies and bums, and–retarded ones, uh

Dolphins and whales–are the smartest ones, so

Nothing you can do can be new up under the sun

Depending what sun you live under, you can be the one on

[Hook: André 3000]

Sunday mornin'

Makes me feel (Ah ah ah ah ah...)

So godly

Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Soul...)

(Ah ah ah ah ah ah...)

(Ah ah ah ah) Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya

Sunday mornin'

Makes me feel (Ha ha ha ha...)

So godly

Pardon me, if I shake your soul...

(Ah ah ah ah ah ah...)

Ooh-ya (ya...ya...ya...ya....)