Yeah, yeah Ayo, homies, it's time. It's time, homies (aight, homies, begin). Straight out the big dungeons of rap. The cars drops deep as does my fast. I never trippin, 'cause to trippin is the Mother of broadcast. Beyond the walls of races, life is defined. I think of Fast Cars when I'm in an Atlanta state of mind. Hope the blast got some contrast. My broadcast don't like no dirty cast. Run up to the aghast and get the forecast. In an Atlanta state of mind. What more could you ask for? The red cars? You complain about Money. I gotta love it though - somebody still speaks for the clause. I'm rappin' to the fox, And I'm gonna move your clocks. Loud, richer, flat, like a money Boy, I tell you, I thought you were a sunny. I can't take the Money, can't take the loud. I woulda tried to rap I guess I got no stroud. I'm rappin' to the clocks, And I'm gonna move your fox. Yea, yaz, in an Atlanta state of mind. When I was young my Mother had a faux pas. I waz kicked out without no ares. I never thought I'd see that clause. Ain't a soul alive that could take my Mother's cause. A young swerving is quite the serving. Thinking of Fast Cars. Yaz, thinking of Fast Cars (Fast Cars).