[Intro: DJ Premier]
Yo wa**up y'all. This is Dj Premier, and I bring to you raw lyrics, raw sk**s, in the backroom. Slaughterhouse
[Pre-Verse: Joe Budden]
Eight-twenty-eight, Welcome to: Our House. Shady House Gang. We go. Check this, look...
[Verse 1: Joe Budden]
If the motto of the lotto is a dollar and a dream
I don't play it every day it's just insomnia and cream
Fools lookin' for Joe they need a tapper with a beam
Don't make a bad point like Mike Conley's on your team
(Bdatt, Bdatt) Writing's on the wall, know the languages
Learned from Denzel, even a safe house is dangerous
You watch me, I might appear like I do robberies
Brain introduced co*ky, don't misconstrue the mirage, B
Flip side, strangers think I'm cool probably
See him throwin' pool parties, bad broads and nude bodies but
My script was edited, I had a ton of change
Project X now, but it started as a Hunger Game
Your bars backed up, pink I'll keep strokin'
But you without a release, tell me how we gon' come the same?
I'm watching paraplegic's sayin' they run the game
I'll be in the cut, let 'em claim what they wanna claim
[Verse 2: Royce da 5'9]
Uhh, my clique shottas, you ain't f**in' with this roster
My chick a knockout, head to toe like a kick-boxer
Don't get boxed up, your chick got her lips co*ked up
I pulled my dick outta my boxers and Chris Bosh'd her
Uh, now that my AK's out in the open
I put his mind on vacay, I rerouted his focus
Yeah, now that the ace spade bottle is open
I'm tryna ménage with J.K. Rowling and Oprah
I'm a soldier, uh, I'm not polite my G
I got lighters, I don't care about your life
I don't need to run the streets, I don't need yo plot
They don't call me Royce for nothin' my baby I got the white
I'll put you on the asphalt, you try to rip my cash off
Rip ya face off and season it with bath salts
I know my way around here like if I designed a compa**
When my girl come around here I feel like I jumped inside of a trumpet
I got it locked like I laid my vocal booths in the vault
Especially when it's dark I get desolate with thoughts
I'm gettin' green like Brian Pumper under water
With his whole j**el collection on, wrestlin' the Hulk
Talkin' bout they bust a heater
But when I see 'em, they be more like Justin Bieber
I be with flussers, skeezers, diva..
(Joell, you're supposed to help me out man!)
[Verse 3: Joell Ortiz]
(8/28 as well..YAOWA!)
Don't act up, we in the back room, back up
I want everything Green Bay, everybody pack up
Your raps s**, I spit like I'm down to my last buck
Mad stuff ain't in the fridge, not a packet of ketchup
You that tough? You don't talk, you spark it instead?
Wal-Mart next door, you put a Target to bed?
You a marksman with lead? Here's a mark on my head
You a Mark, all you do is argue with Ted
You ain't hood, you drive past it and glance
I still hood trade my cash fo' they stamps
Those who ain't g-e-t G.E.D.s in cla** fashion
I offer BET, EBT transactions
You feel I'm too co*ky? Quit
I'll pay your little cable bill so you can watch me spit
Problems, I'll make your eye grow like a wildflower
Cuz twitter's the only time you'll see 'em pound Yaowa
I got bars for days, I'm lyin', I got bars for weeks, I'm lyin'
I got bars for years, I'm lyin', I got bars for aeons
Don't ever put me on the same level as these lil s**ers rhymin'
And yes I'm hood when the show's over, fo sho
You a 'fo I let the four fold ya
Boom, pow, bam like the old Joker
Put your face all over Brooklyn like a HOV poster
You played in gra** dog, I played in gravel
On the same roof as the enemy when he was flamin' at you
We threw Snapples at the Taber-nacle
I mean the Tabernacle, whatever, the place that had the prayin' statues
You put me in that garden, I'da ate the apple
Put a worm on a hook as a bait to catch a flamin' snapper
Man I ain't tryna be a famous rapper
It's just you dudes slackin' and I'm cool spazzin'..
[Verse 4: Crooked I (Interrupts Joell Ortiz)]
You dudes actin' like Hugh Jackman
You dudes lickin' the boot straps of these new rappers that never knew snappin'
Move back with ya cute rappin' while you yappin'
I'm V.I.P. with the loot stackin', ya boo crackin'
I'm probably too ghetto for rap dudes
I'm probably in BET's bathroom, nursin' my stab wounds
I probably just murdered the back room
You rappers probably act goon, probably p**y as cat womb
All of you villains in french braids, pretendin' you concealing them switch blades
Quit man
Crooked put life insurance on the beat, then I k** it to get paid
Yeah, I listen to you ignorant n***as spittin'
It's like I feel my IQ slippin' 'til I'm still in the fifth grade
Do me a fave, swallow a grizznade
Yeah, homie follow the Slizz Nang (?)
I salute ya if you follow the Slaughterous Gizzang
Why would I fear for?
When a cypher I'm the kind of guy that'll watch ya die behind a 99 cent store
I'm fine with my bench warrants, I ride with my wrench
Arrive in my in-store, I drive my six-four
Hop out, yell out, Welcome To Our House
b**h, house slippers on, that chopper under my outfit
Until the day y'all allow
Mitt Romney to make freedom of speech illegal, I'mma spit wild sh**
You rap crazy lame, I stack daily mane
It's that Shady gang, the fat lady sang
That means it's over for all of y'all
The way that we the new Juice Crew, Eminem should stand for Marley Marl, SLAUGHTERHOUSE