Ft Slaughterhouse We Outta Here (Prod by StreetRunner)-Joe Budden

(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 B*****s cranberry like a vodka mixer Whippin B*****s 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'f**kin Slaughterhouuuuuuuse We outta here, we outta here, we outta here It's a muh'f**kin 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 n***a [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 Motherf**ker 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]