(feat. Royce Da 5'9", Joell Ortiz, Crooked I)
[Intro: Royce]

Your left shoulderrrrr (HUT!)

Your right shoulderrrrr (HUT!)

[gunfire]

Your left shoulderrrrr (HUT!)

Your right shoulderrrrr (HUT!)

[whistle blows]



[female] Slaughter



[Royce Da 5'9"]

Poppa-Poppa Pistol stuck his dick in Momma Missile

and created Mr. Got-to-Get-You if he opposite just split

You niggaz bitches cranberry like a vodka mixer

Whippin bitches niggaz black, ass like a cotton picker

Bomb through debris - I'm holdin two pistols

in the form of a crosshair, I am armed to the T

I put on for my city, I take off for whoever

think I'm soft for my job of rappin, go back to clappin

Back to illin, back to dealin, back to coc-a-ina

Up the nose, that's the feelin, sky the limit, that's the ceilin

And the women is the whores, puttin numbers up for sales

It's the score into hell, it's the feel, it's the feel



[Chorus: Royce Da 5'9" - singing with AutoTune]

I can make noise when the gat blowwwww-ooooooh-oooh

The Slaughterhouse boys make the gat blowwwww-ohhhhh-ooooh

It's a muh'fuckin Slaughterhouuuuuuuse

We outta here, we outta here, we outta here

It's a muh'fuckin Slaughterhouse

We outta here, we outta here, we outta



[Joe Budden]

[starts off screwed] I live my life like a hood bopper

touched by evil, all about bread and evil

Regular people lookin like bread to eagles with the desert eagle

Cordially they forcin me to act accordingly

When according to me my thoughts disorderly just like they outta be

It's more to me in accord to me

Just mad at the smoke and the mirrors, image, perceptions and the forgery

Everything is a fraud to me

So until the boys wake up, me and my boys make up

Be with the toy sprayers, aimin noise makers at the noise makers (blam)

Best group ever, group of whoever who do it better

Bets placed on it (nigga!) number one got our face on it

And I make a case on it, treason

Every twelve months it's huntin season

They call us Slaughterhouse for a reason!



[Chorus]



[Royce] Crooked!



[Crooked I]

Piano face Audemars, you haters know the time

Drug abusin fourth-grader, I mean a loaded nine

Hits in the stash, Ferrari Spider, the road is mine

Like lap dancers and bad brakes, I'm on the grind

So tell Officer Crawford that this is (Slaughterhouse)

And I left the next black president in his daughter's mouth

Swallow my kids then I'm like, "Yo I gotta bounce"

Ben Franklin's a math genius and every dollar counts

We takin over the game, go at you little wussies

(Why?) Cause that's the sweetest joy next to gettin pussy

Somethin bad is emergin

Slaughter's blowin up like a suicide bomber promised 70 virgins nigga



[Chorus]



[Royce] Ortiz!



[Joell Ortiz]

One quarter of Slaughter reportin to you live 

from a corner where reporters stop by

Since somebody playin pow-pow

shots fly out a glock-9 'til you cooked like a potpie

Take a look at everybody in my crew 

bet you can't find a member of the squad that is not fly

Anybody say they can see us they either lyin 

or not wearin they glasses, apparently cock-eyed

We don't shit, we ca-ca

We don't spit, we emit lava

Got a grip on these hip-hoppers like a big lobster

Everybody know the deal when the hear the kid YOWWA!

Goo-goo, ga-ga, baby cryin 'bout the internet

They get on the site but they showed me and Joe the other night 

takin flights then lightin up a cigarette

Motherfucker we ill, not one insect step short of the best thing

Everything we touch make they head swing and, y'all ain't really interestin

Throw a shot, and our fans do the interceptin

You got the crowd fooled but I ain't really into wrestlin (into wrestlin)



[Chorus]