The song lyrics were written by the band Van Halen, as they were asked to write a song for the 1979 movie "Over the Edge" starring Matt Dillon. The movie (and the lyrics, although more obliquely) are about bored, rebellious youth with nothing better to do than get into trouble. If you see the movie, these lyrics will make more sense. It's a great movie if you grew up in the 70s/80s you'll definitely remember some of these characters from your own life. Fun fact, after writing the song, Van Halen decided not to let the movie use it.
Hahahahaha, yeah
It's your nigga young Khalifa, man
Chris Breezy
All my ladies put your hands up
Yeah, Taylor Gang
All my ladies put your hands up
You know we had to, uh, pass them some papers on this one, let's go
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (hahahahaha)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb
Ladies put your hands up if you that bomb-bomb (you know, you gon' have to bring that bomb)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb
Oh me, oh my, body like a monster
Let me get inside, ya booty, I'ma conquer
Ain't no question 'bout my size, I'll give you the answer
Girl, you got that good good, I already know
Tell it by your size, I know you a dancer
Rein-derriere, I'ma call you Prancer
Booty paparazzi, pose for the camera
All my ladies, if you got it, let me know
You know shawty thick in her hips, cold than a mother
Lickin' her lips, a bad mothersucker
Apple lookin' so ripe, she make me want a piece (piece)
I give it to her all night, so she don't wanna leave
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Ladies put your hands up if you got that bomb-bomb (oh-whoa, hahahahaha)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb (yeah, yeah)
Uh, somethin' like a pimp (pimp)
Nothin' like them other fellas
Heard that you the shit (s-shit)
Girl, we should blow up together
Ooh, I know you got that bomb shit, call it 9/11
I'm just tryna beat it up, h-h-he could do it a cappella (a cappella)
We should go back to my crib, that's what I'ma tell her
Bring one or two of them 'cause your friends lookin' kinda jealous
R-r-rollin' papers like propellers, blowin' mozzarella
Lotta niggas in the club, who cares? I'm the realest
Tell the waitress, uh, we gon' need more cases
And when you think the money's gone, I'm spendin' more faces
She with homeboy (homeboy), but she want this
Six cars, eight chains, three cribs, one Wiz
You know shawty thick in her hips, cold than a mother (hahahahaha)
Lickin' her lips, a bad mothersucker (yeah, uh)
Apple lookin' so ripe, she make me want a piece (what up, breezy?)
I give it to her all night, so she don't wanna leave (it's your young nigga, wiz)
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Ladies put your hands up if you got that bomb-bomb (oh-whoa, yeah)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb (yeah, yeah)
Hold up Kimosabe, my crib look like a lobby
I'm in that black Bugatti and I'm off that Carlo Rose
I'm-I'm-I'm with that Taylor posse, these ladies wanna party
And there's so much ice up on my neck, it look like I play hockey
So hold up, nigga, stop me, all these haters watch me
I give her the pill and the D, you can call me cocky
Any stage or any beat, you know I'ma body
And Wiz, roll that good shit up and he ridin' shotty (baow)
You know shawty thick in her hips, cold than a mother (okay)
Lickin' her lips, a bad mothersucker (hahahaha)
Apple lookin' so ripe, she make me want a piece (hahaha, you know)
I give it to her all night, so she don't wanna leave (yeah, leggo!)
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Ladies put your hands up if you got that bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb (yeah, yeah)
Yup, so when your bitch smell like that good weed, man, blame it on me
Don't even blame Breezy, man, blame that shit on me, man
Hahahahaha, uh, yup
It's your nigga young Khalifa, man
Chris Breezy
All my ladies put your hands up
Yeah, Taylor Gang
All my ladies put your hands up
You know we had to, uh, pass them some papers on this one, let's go
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (hahahahaha)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb
Ladies put your hands up if you that bomb-bomb (you know, you gon' have to bring that bomb)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb
Oh me, oh my, body like a monster
Let me get inside, ya booty, I'ma conquer
Ain't no question 'bout my size, I'll give you the answer
Girl, you got that good good, I already know
Tell it by your size, I know you a dancer
Rein-derriere, I'ma call you Prancer
Booty paparazzi, pose for the camera
All my ladies, if you got it, let me know
You know shawty thick in her hips, cold than a mother
Lickin' her lips, a bad mothersucker
Apple lookin' so ripe, she make me want a piece (piece)
I give it to her all night, so she don't wanna leave
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Ladies put your hands up if you got that bomb-bomb (oh-whoa, hahahahaha)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb (yeah, yeah)
Uh, somethin' like a pimp (pimp)
Nothin' like them other fellas
Heard that you the shit (s-shit)
Girl, we should blow up together
Ooh, I know you got that bomb shit, call it 9/11
I'm just tryna beat it up, h-h-he could do it a cappella (a cappella)
We should go back to my crib, that's what I'ma tell her
Bring one or two of them 'cause your friends lookin' kinda jealous
R-r-rollin' papers like propellers, blowin' mozzarella
Lotta niggas in the club, who cares? I'm the realest
Tell the waitress, uh, we gon' need more cases
And when you think the money's gone, I'm spendin' more faces
She with homeboy (homeboy), but she want this
Six cars, eight chains, three cribs, one Wiz
You know shawty thick in her hips, cold than a mother (hahahahaha)
Lickin' her lips, a bad mothersucker (yeah, uh)
Apple lookin' so ripe, she make me want a piece (what up, breezy?)
I give it to her all night, so she don't wanna leave (it's your young nigga, wiz)
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Ladies put your hands up if you got that bomb-bomb (oh-whoa, yeah)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb (yeah, yeah)
Hold up Kimosabe, my crib look like a lobby
I'm in that black Bugatti and I'm off that Carlo Rose
I'm-I'm-I'm with that Taylor posse, these ladies wanna party
And there's so much ice up on my neck, it look like I play hockey
So hold up, nigga, stop me, all these haters watch me
I give her the pill and the D, you can call me cocky
Any stage or any beat, you know I'ma body
And Wiz, roll that good shit up and he ridin' shotty (baow)
You know shawty thick in her hips, cold than a mother (okay)
Lickin' her lips, a bad mothersucker (hahahaha)
Apple lookin' so ripe, she make me want a piece (hahaha, you know)
I give it to her all night, so she don't wanna leave (yeah, leggo!)
If you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Know you got that bomb-bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Ladies put your hands up if you got that bomb-bomb (oh-whoa)
Girl, you got that bomb-ba-bomb-ba-bomb-bomb-bomb (yeah, yeah)
Yup, so when your bitch smell like that good weed, man, blame it on me
Don't even blame Breezy, man, blame that shit on me, man
Hahahahaha, uh, yup
Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings
Bomb Lyrics as written by Nick Marsh Amber Streeter
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management, Universal Music Publishing Group, CONCORD MUSIC PUBLISHING LLC, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Royalty Network, Spirit Music Group, Downtown Music Publishing, Songtrust Ave, Peermusic Publishing, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
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