| Song | Hammer Dance |
| Artist | Slaughterhouse |
| Album | Welcome to Our House |
| My real name, my rap shit | |
| No made up nigga, | |
| I'm straight up, nigga | |
| Still in the projects where | |
| I came up, nigga | |
| On a scaffold doing ten sets of ten, getting my weight up, nigga | |
| I'm no shooter, but my shooters'll have your brain exposed | |
| But I'll shoot five in a second, homie, and break your nose | |
| Talking past, | |
| I'm dead ass, | |
| I was living | |
| Life fast with my pistol in the grass | |
| Digging in my ass tryna finish up the last | |
| So I can sit it in a stash | |
| Old E. sweat dripping from the bag | |
| Milk crates sitting on the ave | |
| While I'm looking left and right for the niggas with the badge | |
| My mom's dishes really had crack on ‘em 12 12s and | |
| I kept that shit packed for ‘em, yeah they came back for ‘em | |
| I can paint it so vivid cause | |
| I really lived it | |
| If rap fail, | |
| I stack bail, and show you how to get it! [Hook: Royce da 5'9"] | |
| I'm in the club, bottle in my hand doing my two step | |
| While I got my gun in my pants, call it the hammer dance | |
| Bitches dancing on a nigga when they feel the gun | |
| I tell ‘em we're doing the hammer dance | |
| Two steppin' with my weapon on me | |
| You good? | |
| I'm just checking, homie | |
| Fam-a-lam, you don't stand a chance | |
| While I got this gun in my pants doing my hammer dance [Verse 2: Crooked I] | |
| In these L | |
| A times, I wake up on one | |
| House slippers and coffee, | |
| I know the paper gon' come | |
| I drop shit that make the gangstas go dumb | |
| Keep a bad bitch naked like my waist with no gun | |
| I'm for real, how are you? | |
| Got street power, from the | |
| Watts Towers to | |
| Howard U How would you become me? | |
| I don't do what you cowards do | |
| Flip a thousand pounds of that sour dies' in a hour, dude | |
| I'm out my muh'fuckin' mind | |
| Fuck a punchline, salute my muh'fuckin' grind | |
| Ditching feds on the regular, they're trying to catch a predator | |
| Not the Chris | |
| Hansen type, but the | |
| Danny Glover kind | |
| I'm a killer, everybody know | |
| I body your audio | |
| When a shotty blow, say goodbye to your barrio, you maricon | |
| You don't think that | |
| I'm about this | |
| Ice grill, nigga, put your money where your mouth is [Hook] [Verse 3: Joe Budden] | |
| My real name, my rap shit | |
| Fuck with | |
| Chase, but the real bank is the mattress | |
| Money ain't new to me, been getting | |
| G-stacks Since | |
| Smoove B took his shawty back from rehab | |
| Knife work with me, but the chrome is extra | |
| Case I'm in the same taxi as the bone collector | |
| Y'all rappin' 'bout models, | |
| I get hounded by ‘em | |
| Not a killer at all, | |
| I'm just surrounded by ‘em | |
| Just a real nigga, straight from my mother's stomach | |
| Ain't enough cloth for all of us to be cut from it | |
| Not decided by who toast led | |
| Cause all of us would be angels for | |
| Pujols' bread | |
| Lot of hostility, hollering is killing me | |
| Screaming “ | |
| Over my dead body,†like it's not a possibility | |
| On my Jers' bullshit, never mind me | |
| But if it's ever problems, niggas know where to find me [Hook] |
| My real name, my rap shit | |
| No made up nigga, | |
| I' m straight up, nigga | |
| Still in the projects where | |
| I came up, nigga | |
| On a scaffold doing ten sets of ten, getting my weight up, nigga | |
| I' m no shooter, but my shooters' ll have your brain exposed | |
| But I' ll shoot five in a second, homie, and break your nose | |
| Talking past, | |
| I' m dead ass, | |
| I was living | |
| Life fast with my pistol in the grass | |
| Digging in my ass tryna finish up the last | |
| So I can sit it in a stash | |
| Old E. sweat dripping from the bag | |
| Milk crates sitting on the ave | |
| While I' m looking left and right for the niggas with the badge | |
| My mom' s dishes really had crack on em 12 12s and | |
| I kept that shit packed for em, yeah they came back for em | |
| I can paint it so vivid cause | |
| I really lived it | |
| If rap fail, | |
| I stack bail, and show you how to get it! Hook: Royce da 5' 9" | |
| I' m in the club, bottle in my hand doing my two step | |
| While I got my gun in my pants, call it the hammer dance | |
| Bitches dancing on a nigga when they feel the gun | |
| I tell em we' re doing the hammer dance | |
| Two steppin' with my weapon on me | |
| You good? | |
| I' m just checking, homie | |
| Famalam, you don' t stand a chance | |
| While I got this gun in my pants doing my hammer dance Verse 2: Crooked I | |
| In these L | |
| A times, I wake up on one | |
| House slippers and coffee, | |
| I know the paper gon' come | |
| I drop shit that make the gangstas go dumb | |
| Keep a bad bitch naked like my waist with no gun | |
| I' m for real, how are you? | |
| Got street power, from the | |
| Watts Towers to | |
| Howard U How would you become me? | |
| I don' t do what you cowards do | |
| Flip a thousand pounds of that sour dies' in a hour, dude | |
| I' m out my muh' fuckin' mind | |
| Fuck a punchline, salute my muh' fuckin' grind | |
| Ditching feds on the regular, they' re trying to catch a predator | |
| Not the Chris | |
| Hansen type, but the | |
| Danny Glover kind | |
| I' m a killer, everybody know | |
| I body your audio | |
| When a shotty blow, say goodbye to your barrio, you maricon | |
| You don' t think that | |
| I' m about this | |
| Ice grill, nigga, put your money where your mouth is Hook Verse 3: Joe Budden | |
| My real name, my rap shit | |
| Fuck with | |
| Chase, but the real bank is the mattress | |
| Money ain' t new to me, been getting | |
| Gstacks Since | |
| Smoove B took his shawty back from rehab | |
| Knife work with me, but the chrome is extra | |
| Case I' m in the same taxi as the bone collector | |
| Y' all rappin' ' bout models, | |
| I get hounded by em | |
| Not a killer at all, | |
| I' m just surrounded by em | |
| Just a real nigga, straight from my mother' s stomach | |
| Ain' t enough cloth for all of us to be cut from it | |
| Not decided by who toast led | |
| Cause all of us would be angels for | |
| Pujols' bread | |
| Lot of hostility, hollering is killing me | |
| Screaming | |
| Over my dead body, like it' s not a possibility | |
| On my Jers' bullshit, never mind me | |
| But if it' s ever problems, niggas know where to find me Hook |