| She had a bad dream in the backseat
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| The same one as yesterday
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| The same one as last week
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| Surrounded by her favorite favorites
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| Elmo, Barbie, her purple baby blanket
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| And that little matchbox that looks like just like dad’s car
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| It’s fast on the leather, pretends its Nascar
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| It jumps over Elmo cause it can fly that far
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| With Daddy in the front seat frontin like a rap star
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| Hey girl oh girl Daddy’s the greatest
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| He knows the words to everything on the radio playlist
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| He fakes the accent, even makes all the faces
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| And when he raises his voice
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| It makes her feel like he’s famous
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| Yea Poppa got his lean on
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| A mean one
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| Weavin down Lake street-tryin to get his scene on
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| Stoppin the whip to say somethin out the window
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| Bobbin his head to the beat on the radio
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| Good daddy won’t smoke no weed
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| Until the Bass cradles her back to sleep
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| Then he can steak his Mack while she takes a nap
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| To the sweet pretty sounds of the gansta rap
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| The high hat to angels voices
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| They keep her distracted from the stranger’s voices
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| Escape is a paradox, because a childhood is locked in that music box
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| Daddies drive around, Mommies work night shift
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| Sweet dreams, sleep little precious
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| Lay down in that music box
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| Escape in the sound of that music box
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| Daddies drive around, Mommies work night shift
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| Sweet dreams, sleep little precious
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| Lay down in that music box
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| Escape in the sound of that music box
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| Yea daddy knows people, he’s important
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| The guy with the suit and tie they see at the court
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| And it seems like he ain’t tryin to talk to police
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| But at the car wash they treat him like the star that she sees
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| They like poppa’s big wheels
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| And the lollipop she gets makes her feel like a big deal
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| Not allowed to have it yet, gotta sit still
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| Like the toy that she knows is gonna come with the kids meal
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| She loves drive through food
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| Health conscious dad, he buys her the juice
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| A little sip of soda, builds the pride
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| Go ahead baby girl, don’t spill those fries
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| Nuh uh poppa can’t roll a messy office
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| Compulsive in the way she lay them napkins all across the seat
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| Never puts her feet up on the upholstery
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| Just kicks em side to side to the beat on the radio
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| She sings along like dad does
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| She knows all the words, but she leave out the bad ones
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| Except bitch-she always sings the word bitch
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| Cause it makes her daddy laugh, it’s her magic trick
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| And when daddy picks mommy up, they fight
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| They fight about money, they fight about life
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| So she concentrates so so hard on the music
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| And loses herself inside of the bass and the movement
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| Daddies drive around, Mommies work night shift
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| Sweet dreams, sleep little precious
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| Lay down in that music box
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| Escape in the sound of that music box
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| Daddies drive around, Mommies work night shift
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| Sweet dreams, sleep little precious
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| Lay down in that music box
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| Escape in the sound of that music box
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| Turn that Buick off |