Artist：timbaland
Songs Title：indian carpet
Yo (yo), yo, ay yo
Timabalands flow infamous
Allow me to assemble this flow with limitless style
For all man, woman and innocent child
I have no perimeter
Break all barriers in various areas
My sound is mimicked
Track prime minister, some say sinister
None stoppin the groove until when its
The climax, some niggas is bitin my hot hats
And followed my drum pattern, but I done that
Its time to change, get more deranged
Feels more strange (doooodooooo)
Follow me through gravel and shallow trees
From mountains to flat plain, to thunder and black rain
Through the dream state of utopia
Woke up to the sounds of that man timbaland
Five mexican bitches scopin us
Belly dancin, sayin hell, hes handsome in spanish
We was fine until the subtitles vanished
Then and open fire, totin opium
Higher than I ever been in my life
Heard cries throughout the night like
Lets get em started
While they dance on, indian carpet
Cmon, uh
Niggas act retarded
While they dance on, indian carpet
Cmon, uh
Lets get em started
While they dance on, indian carpet
Ay yo, I woke up to a bowl of rice like the golden child
T.v. playin like the poltergeist, must been on overnight
I saw a strong beam of light, decided to walk to it
Could it be the son of christ, I decided to talk to it
In the halls I heard music shoutin beautiful calls
And I swore I heard a voice say:
Its yours my, gift to you, to do what you choose
But I suggest you do what you do to make the spirits move
I hear ya dude, and me bein a barrel of fruit
But your ears heavenly, when I sit in this chair and produce
Then my hallway darkened
I felt a power surge rush throughout my apartment
And the glance callin like
Mag spit with a sense of purpose on purpose
When you was eatin collard greens I was eatin these dreams
I stepped in dog shit and bit skid row twice
Only ice I had put it in my orange slice
What you know about livin in a jail when it aint no bars
Handcuffed with no key, world denyin your plea
A third-degree charge when it aint no crime
Twenty-six years old and I got more time
Phone overdue, baby on the way, low pay
Low rent for your mom, gotta get away
Smoke, hate now, then you wanna talk about the ghetto
Im tenth generation of that, came out the womb with a hat
Polo on and nikes with a gold tooth
Im superman, I can spit from any phone booth
You and your cold ass crew do what you do
Just remember mag never feel good, I am the flu