[Intro: Crooked I (Kay Young)]
You're nothin without (Focus)
Woo.. Long Beach (lay your seats back)
New Jersey (turn your speakers up)
Brook-lyn! Detroit!
[Chorus: Kay Young]
We-we, we lyrical murrrrrrrrrrrderers
Welcome to the Slaughterhouse
(What you talkin 'bout?)
Where we bring them verbal llamas out, bloaw
We-we, we lyrical murrrrrrrrrrrderers
Man, we own these streets
And the freaks they love us
We ain't worried 'bout you fuckers (Slaughterhouse)
[Crooked I]
Lyrical murderer, blame Rakim
I'm a sniper shootin my way into your lame top 10
Pistol at your head if I ain't next to Eminem
Then I bust in your face like I'm fuckin Lil' Kim
Niggaz better pray to the lyrical lord
that I fall off like the umbilical cord before I fill up the morgue
This is how a killer record
with the double-edged triple syllable sword, I'm iller than all
Dineri, see I'm a literary genius
Bury niggaz with words, a cemetery linguist
Most rappers are comedy gold
They like they boyfriend's sodomy hole - they full of SHIT!
[Royce Da 5'9]
Now you could walk through the shadow of death next to that shady street
Where the verbal cocaine business and 80's meet
Where them niggaz is backwards
I'm ridin with my daughter in the front with the A.K. in the baby seat
We them copycat killers, unleashin venom
Commit them lyrical murders and then we re-commit 'em
Lyrics be high quality
Bitches be givin me brain, my dick be deep in they heads like psychology
Independently pennin the best words that were ever said
The mixture of Leatherhead and Everclear
You can't hide, we everywhere
Now, picture a grizzly standin next to a teddy bear
[Chorus]
[Joe Budden]
Yeah
Hello hip-hop, I am here, you dyin yeah and I'm aware
A beast so at your wake I'll cry lion's tears
And that's no disrespect to the pioneers
If we ain't who you tryin to hear
Somethin either wrong with your eyes and ears
I came in this game screamin Jers'
Ain't an MC in our lane to try and merge
Try and run with our wave
But I'm cool with bein Eddie Levert seein my son on stage
Gun gon' blaze, act up in this joint
And I'ma be Nate Robinson and back up the point
Your run's over, run with us or get run over
I'm here to save this shit, and I brung soldiers
[Joell Ortiz]
This is lyrical murder
Me and every track have a physical merger
When I stab it in the chest I'ma bit of a curver
So it bleeds to death, like the middle of a unfinished burger
Or sometimes I wrap my hand around his throat
Cause he think his kick is slick or his little snare is dope
Shoot the bass in the face but sometimes I carry a rope
to hang the piano keys when they hittin every note
I'm what no beat's able to withstand
If you suffer from writer's block and your label got big plans
Listen to this fam
Slide a little dough out that budget, and hire the instrumental hitman
[Chorus]?