(feat. Bun B, Crooked I, Joe Budden)




[Bun B]

Let's get it started like transmission and alternators

Got the keys in the cage ready for who you call the greatest

Takin 'em down from the biggest bitches to smallest haters

I'm 'bout to serve these niggaz, call 'em waiters

Got my mind right, money right, ready for war

And I got the C4, under my competitor's car

These niggaz runnin 'round talkin 'bout they better than moi

When I'm done all that's gon' be left bitch is ya head and ya bra

Bitch I'm ahead of the pack, and I'm ahead of the game

And I put yo' head on a platter you put some shit on my name

Bitch I'm the shit, see the stains that I done left on the track?

And I ain't sayin no names but I left the best on they back

And they ain't sayin no names so I gotta say it myself

I'm finger fuckin this game so you gotta play with yourself

Don't pull a K off the shelf, or pull a strap out the stash

I ain't gotta draw the pistol, I will chop at yo' ass

I just let the hands of God toe-tap on you fast

Leave you mashed like potatoes on the top of the grass

Call the coppers to catch me and they'll just tell you to drop it

I'll find you sooner or later, and they can't do shit to stop it

Got that thang and I'ma pop it like a bubble on the double

I am trouble in the flesh, you can't see me with the Hubble

We ain't wishin these niggaz good luck, go get a clover

This Bun B, it's "B.E. 3," this shit is over



[Crooked I]

SLAUGHTERHOUUUUUSE! (Whoo, Kiiiiiiiid!)



[Joe Budden]

Look at ya man look back at me, yeah I know, sickenin huh?

Few got a Porsche with only two doors, need to upgrade cause you missin some

We just got two different bills, different styles, different sums

Started as a drive-by, ended as a hit-and-run

Stop me in the streets, let it be properly when you greet

Fuck lookin for me, I'm on your property if it's beef

Not for robbery of ya piece, it's lobomomy with my peeps

That comraderie is usually sodomy for the beat

'Less my critics put a lens on them, so I could look through it

Shut the fuck up, probably mean that you too shook to do it

We'd see two pennies to your name, yet you so saucy

When I fix this game you can (Thank Me Later) for it, no Aubrey

Switch my demeanor up I'm, off my 380 shit

My, future's bright, stars is by my head, baby shit

Make me sick, what you eat don't make me shit

Found out the reason they hate me is my God-like presence, must be athiest

While all of the frauds in rap is talkin swag put a fork in that

Slaughter's back, listen nigga I got houses all across the map

Even got a Boston pad, got this bitch from Boston bad

Well put her in a wrestlin move, but I heard she got that (Boston Crab)

Batteries in your back, go by what he say

Just need you to know that it's no lee-way, and the tables are turned, go DJ

So you know what that blindfold's for

That bloodshed's a secret, let's keep it behind closed doors



[Chorus: Royce Da 5'9"]

Who you said was dope again?

Ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us

Who you said was hot again?

Ay ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us

Who you say could spit again?

Ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us

Who you say was dope again?

Ay ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us



[Crooked I]

I'm the present and the future

Like Christmas in 2012 I'm the present in the future, an executive producer

You will never get to choose ya destiny cause you a pessimistic loser

Mess with me and I'll definitely shoot ya

I'ma do's ya like I'm reppin the Yakuza

Die hard like I'm sexin with Medusa, do somethin nigga

Born thuggin, I don't fuck with the cock

Nuts hang down my pant leg, balls tucked in my socks

I ain't gotta act tough to get a couple of props

Little nigga raised hisself, I don't know what's up with my pops

Do I think I'm the dopest, in America? I do

Make you switch your whole style like you're datin Erykah Badu

Pair of Ferragamo shoes, I will stomp you

I'm fucked up, like the relationship between Farrakhan and Jews

I'm spankin this instrumental, like a wrinkly old bitch

I'm whippin the kick and snare, make 'em pick they own switch

I'm smarter than computers that know how to fix they own glitch

I'll leave you face down, like chicks who lick they own tits

And from this day forward, Crooked is aging backwards

Gettin younger and fresher, puttin bums under some pressure

Yes sir! Watch the next Slaughterhouse album

Every line is white powder, I ain't talkin 'bout talcum

I am tighter than "The Biggest Losers" cruisin in a Smart car

Distinguished alkie, the flask on the armoire

I'm from the home of the most popular bomb weed

Most proper, hoes rock with my partners who top seed

Po' vodka, we gon' bottle pop in the calm breeze

No copper can stop a COB star - I'm a giant

Dumpin my cigar ashes out on top of the palm trees

Chrome chopper, if I squeeze you drop on the concrete

You wanna talk about the paper? Oh let's do it

Batter pocket syndrome, the money we gon' abuse it

Still gettin out-of-town paper so don't confuse it

Tell the hip-hop cops nah, it's only music

And haters steady eavesdroppin on "The Bar Exam"

Probably in your trunk now dependin on what car I ram



[Chorus]