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