Slaughterhouse - Wack Mc`s lyrics

[Intro: sample of Boogie Down Productions' "My Philosophy"] Rap is like a set-up, a lot of games A lot of s**as with colorful names I'm so-and-so, I'm this, I'm that Huh, but they all just wick-wick-wack [Joe Budden] Ladies and gentlemen With no further adieux {"wick-wick"} It's your man, Joey! {"wick-wi-wi-wi-wick-wick-wack"} Look {"wick-wick-wick-wack"} I'm the perfect one to show ya, all that slick talkin could be over All it's gon' take's a U-turn from the chauffeur You test me, you just see We mix hands with guns, that's the hood's UFC And me? I never had gear (nah) but since last year I swore not to cop nothin if it wasn't cashmere You just salty, I'm fonder than sodium Anticipate the shots like Obama at the podium Me and y'all are nowhere near the same pedigree (nah) Not in layman's terms, hypothetically Metaphorically, lyrically, not especially Theoretically (I mean) we just different genetically And they ain't named me the champion yet So it's, ACG's, Champion sweats Homie this is just a thought (for) The Donny Wall DJ's that don't wanna play the best n***a in New York, dawg [Chorus] "Wick-wick-wack" "Wick, wick-wi-wick-wi-wick-wick-wack" "Wick-wick-wick-wack" "Wick-wick-wack" "Wick, wick-wi-wick-wi-wick-wick-wack" "Wick-wick-wick-wack" [Royce Da 5'9"] OHH! My n***a Spyda is BACK! 5'9", that's me, I'm back baby Slaughterhouse what? My n***a Jumpoff said it best - y'all n***az married to the streets I'm married to a bottle of Patrn wearin a weddin dress Y'all n***az is dead unless you see we have not been playin The Slaughterhouse ain't no goddamn gang Show up to the bar where you hang Shoot at your bottle like, "Hohh, we pop champagne!" No disrespect to ol' D's boy Jimmy I ain't Prince Akeem but I will greet you with the sweepers or the (Semmi)'s These other lame rappers is broke They so po' they gotta name 'Loso to have a (Fabolous) quote And to the fo'-fo' grabbin they throat tellin 'em choke Your n***az arms all froze like they havin a stroke Admit it y'all, Nickel bonkers, kick and stomp ya Put a n***a sleepin in a shlomper, I am not the one bruh This my response to that n***a hidin out in Yonkers [crickets chirping] Haha, that n***a's (blam) [Chorus] [Joell Ortiz] Uhh, Joell Ortiz (Joell Ortiz) yup, it's really me I used to drink the beer promoted by Billy Dee By the bodega in chancletas and a white tee Steady cocoa pia callin papi for a iced tea Married to the block, that's why I never kept a wifey Million fish in the sea, I juggled a couple Pisces Had a fetish for guns, I always kept a few near Never shot someone but I fired 'em all on New Year's Never lost a fight, I'm like 25-and-O, what! Except that time in high school but he jetted when I woke up E'ry time I spit it's like somebody filled the whole cup with liquor and just downed it, they hear it wanna throw up Many nights the fridge held me down with old cold cuts No mayo? No mustard? No bread? Ah, so what! On the floor in the corner was my mattress, B I hated that so I don't rap like you wack MC's [Chorus] [Crooked I] Geah! S-dot H-dot, ha ha! I laugh after I k** you, I'm a poor sportsman Slaughterhouse the successors to the Four Horsemen n***az born to pimp so bring some more who*es in Thinkin with my other hand before more foreskin Me and Red Spyda, roll in a red Spider Executive Westsider, homie's a tec writer Homie I check riders, you better stand down Hands down, you'll be man down on the damn ground Long Beach, the home of them strap clappers From ringtoners to backpackers, I smack rappers Speak on us and we gon' be bendin them street corners to clap actors, after that brrrap, collapse backwards sh**, that's when the force roll through I Malcolm X you pigs, what the pork gon' do? I Malcolm X the track, that mean arm-leg-leg-arm-head Body the beat, the torso too, heh And leave the chorus for you, ni**a! [Chorus - begins during last line]