Death by lyrical injection I kill you rappers A lot of green with a yellow complexion Women call me the Green Bay packer I pack the zero's Meaning mucho deniro So paid, rappers is waitin' on trades and they all get Knicked like Melo Hello, luda! Tell theses other boys double up 'Cause I got some work all on my waist but I call it a tummy tuck My every records jumpin', or playin' double dutch I shit on rappers every verse just got the bubble guts
[Verse 2: Joe Budden] Let me tell this to the people not understandin' my moxy Animal, watch me If you think it's tangible, stop me But then I hit 'em with a flow, that they can't even copy See, we don't play that Where I'm from it's like fantasy hockey Sup with the dog, thugs want a war Bad gm, what you want to trade slugs with him for? While you cuffin 'em all, I'm stuffin the drawer Then leave em for you to rebound Kevin Love on the boards Dog, you and your skill are far apart from of our squad I put you on a crash course in a smart car Always speeding not relying on the brake pad In a car you should only drive on the race track So the lines bout your feelings and the Maybach Are ghost tails about the Phantoms, face facts You ruin hip hop, slaughterhouse the payback In the shape of a tatt, you done faded to black Go...
[Verse 3 - Royce da 5'9''] I went from eating Top Ramen to being top rhymer Check full of commas No regrets except for the drama I remember a time when my only perfection was my momma My mind on my long erection Now it's time ya bow down to the rectum monu- Ment in my honor cause bitch I'm bonker, plural In a whip with my Ivanka, pompous girls She on E, feeling on me, singing on key While I'm bumping We Are The World Got her sniffin Britney, no he didn't did he "We run this town" No we int diddy I feel like tintin the glass, You take a sip with me She from the city of Jackson I call her Mississippi, that was pretty witty Ya man like a black man tryna get re-elected He aint get it, did he?
[Joell Ortiz] Sticking it to the pedal Pedal to the floor Just whippin' it through the ghetto Metal in the door, case I gotta throw some lead into ya, boy Referee mind state, I'm settling the score I don't know what ya'll hating for Wait, wait, know what, matter fact I don't know what you're waiting for I aint finna say nothing, turn the bass up more til the speakers pop I get a kick outta that, like a sneakers spot See I was a little kid with his thumbs in his ears And his tongue in the air going na-na-na-nah-naaar Just when you think it stop na-na-na-nah-naaar Everything I speak is hot But bont be mad at least everything you speak is... I can't think of nothing nice to say, you're not nice okay
[Crooked I] Rapper, hustler, entrepreneur My shit fly like I'm launching manure Lord of the underground, God of the sewer On Hennessy black, on con to the jure Yeah I'm off the block This aint work, homie, I'm off the clock I'm a syllable, Hannibal, killer cannibal With a mechanical mandible to deliver the flammable Ammo, lyrical animal off the top Rep that West till I walk with Pac We the 2. 0 Boys, Tiz, Crooked, Joe, Royce New ghost Rolls Royce, pulled off the lot C*** me, the only way you can stop me I'm top seed, I pop green at mach speed So watch me, if you haven't seen the phenomenon I spit fast as Lamborghini's in Ramadan
Songwriters: BUDDEN, JOSEPH ANTHONY / MATHERS, MARSHALL B. III / PORTER, DENAUN M. / JACKSON, HORACE / BRIDGES, CHRISTOPHER BRIAN / MONTGOMERY, RYAN D. / ORTIZ, JOELL / WICKLIFFE, DOMINICK / RESTO, LUIS EDGARDO