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(feat. Royce Da 5'9", Joell Ortiz, Crooked I) [Intro: Royce] |
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Your left shoulderrrrr (HUT!) |
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Your right shoulderrrrr (HUT!) [gunfire] |
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Your left shoulderrrrr (HUT!) |
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Your right shoulderrrrr (HUT!) [whistle blows] [female] |
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Slaughter [Royce Da 5'9"] |
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Poppa-Poppa |
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Pistol stuck his ************ in |
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Momma Missile and created |
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Mr. Got-to- |
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Get-You if he opposite just split |
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You *******z ******* cranberry like a vodka mixer |
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Whippin ******* *******z black, ass like a cotton picker |
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Bomb through debris - |
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I'm holdin two pistols in the form of a crosshair, |
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I am armed to the |
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T I put on for my city, |
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I take off for whoever think |
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I'm soft for my job of rappin, go back to clappin |
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Back to illin, back to dealin, back to coc-a-ina |
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Up the nose, that's the feelin, sky the limit, that's the ceilin |
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And the women is the whores, puttin numbers up for sales |
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It's the score into hell, it's the feel, it's the feel [Chorus: Royce Da 5'9" - singing with AutoTune] |
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I can make noise when the gat blowwwww-ooooooh-oooh |
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The Slaughterhouse boys make the gat blowwwww-ohhhhh-ooooh |
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It's a muh'****** |
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Slaughterhouuuuuuuse |
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We outta here, we outta here, we outta here |
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It's a muh'****** |
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Slaughterhouse |
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We outta here, we outta here, we outta [Joe Budden] [starts off screwed] |
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I live my life like a hood bopper touched by evil, all about bread and evil |
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Regular people lookin like bread to eagles with the desert eagle |
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Cordially they forcin me to act accordingly |
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When according to me my thoughts disorderly just like they outta be |
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It's more to me in accord to me |
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Just mad at the smoke and the mirrors, image, perceptions and the forgery |
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Everything is a fraud to me |
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So until the boys wake up, me and my boys make up |
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Be with the toy sprayers, aimin noise makers at the noise makers (blam) |
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Best group ever, group of whoever who do it better |
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Bets placed on it (*******!) number one got our face on it |
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And I make a case on it, treason |
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Every twelve months it's huntin season |
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They call us |
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Slaughterhouse for a reason! [Chorus] [Royce] |
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Crooked! [Crooked I] |
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Piano face |
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Audemars, you haters know the time |
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Drug abusin fourth-grader, |
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I mean a loaded nine |
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Hits in the stash, |
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Ferrari Spider, the road is mine |
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Like lap dancers and bad brakes, |
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I'm on the grind |
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So tell Officer |
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Crawford that this is (Slaughterhouse) |
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And I left the next black president in his daughter's mouth |
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Swallow my kids then |
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I'm like, "Yo I gotta bounce" |
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Ben Franklin's a math genius and every dollar counts |
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We takin over the game, go at you little wussies (Why?) |
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Cause that's the sweetest joy next to gettin ************ |
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Somethin bad is emergin |
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Slaughter's blowin up like a suicide bomber promised 70 virgins ******* [Chorus] [Royce] |
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Ortiz! [Joell Ortiz] |
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One quarter of |
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Slaughter reportin to you live from a corner where reporters stop by |
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Since somebody playin pow-pow shots fly out a glock-9 'til you cooked like a potpie |
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Take a look at everybody in my crew bet you can't find a member of the squad that is not fly |
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Anybody say they can see us they either lyin or not wearin they glasses, apparently *******-eyed |
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We don't ************t, we ca-ca |
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We don't spit, we emit lava |
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Got a grip on these hip-hoppers like a big lobster |
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Everybody know the deal when the hear the kid |
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YOWWA! Goo-goo, ga-ga, baby cryin 'bout the internet |
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They get on the site but they showed me and |
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Joe the other night takin flights then lightin up a cigarette |
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Mother******* we ill, not one insect step short of the best thing |
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Everything we touch make they head swing and, y'all ain't really interestin |
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Throw a shot, and our fans do the interceptin |
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You got the crowd fooled but |
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I ain't really into wrestlin (into wrestlin) [Chorus] |
