Lyrics

[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' Makes me feel (Ha ha ha ha...) So godly Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Soul...) (Ah ah ah ah...) I got it... I got it, shawty, yeah (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, squirm and tickle We wiggle out 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, Big Boi] Sunday mornin' Makes me feel (Ha ha ha ha...) So godly Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Soul...) (Ah ah ah ah ah ah...) Yeah... (Ah ah ah ah ah...) Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya [Verse 4: Big Boi] Ain't no Sunday School this morning They say somebody blowed up the church What's even worse than that, I heard Pastor Jenkins, he got hurt By the perpetrators, demonstrators of violence and hatred It's fin' to be 2001, the rojo-necks are racist Fascists acting savage on the Sabbath, must be demons Errand boys for Satan, defeated When I repeated "Rebuke thee, rebuke thee" The look in they eye was spooky But now I find myself in the park, sittin' in my hooptie Like a movie, I was daydreamin' and everything seemed real But now I'm at Mozley Park and we got some chicken on the grill Get a beer, nigga, chill Roll a junt, pop a pill, cop a feel from some cut, as we do it like this here, on [Bridge] On any given Sunday Ah – A legend will be born A tradition will be broken Ah – victory is yours On any given Sunday [Hook: André 3000] Sunday mornin' Makes me feel (Ah ah ah ah...) So godly Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Ah ah ah ah ah...) Ooh-ooh-ooh-ya (ya...ya...ya...ya....)