slaughterhouse - sun doobie lyrics
“sun doobie”
“get more for your money, when you f-ck with mr. porter-r-r-r-r…”
[joell ortiz]
as long as i got my pen i don’t need a friend
we got ears that we each’ll lend each other, my brother just hollered at me again
he said he tired of all the lyin, deceivin and
d-ck-ridin the people providin on every beat but when
i do it it’s stupid, i bruise it like a bad b-tch
i lose it, my music’s a movement and they just mad stiff
i told ’em it’s mathematical in this pad lift
point ’em out and i will subtract him, with an ad lib
see the fact is (what) i’m a b-st-rd
how can i not be (macho, man)? i’m a (savage)
in the past i was p-ssive, now i’m mad b-tch
i’m spazzin, you get an adidas cl-ssic where yo’ -ss is
[royce da 5’9″]
eh-eh, eh-eh, nickel ain’t the one at all
sn-tch your vocal chords out then plug ’em in my wall
you a knife at a gun fight, our sh-t is raw
you a square, you’re silverware in a civil war
the slaughterhouse wolf pack, riders under the moon
the reason you itchin wit’cha lighter under your spoon
i’m a lover, the lead bustin is old to me
you put your head in her b-tt, i headb-tt the ovaries
god dipped me in war paint for all weathers
i’m mr. spill the liquor on my alcohol tether
no need to ride with n-body, i feel the heat can help me
your jean’s skinnier than em is when he eatin healthy, hahaha
[chorus]
whoa, whoa, whoa
whoa, whoa, whoa, shaaady!
whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
{“mr. porter-r-r-r-r…”}
[joe budden]
outnumbered, outspoken, outcasted
outweighed outrageous odds and outlasted
outlandish, so i learned to outwit ’em
i outsmart ’em, outgrew ’em, i outdid ’em
cream, out-bid ’em, team can’t out-spit him
(you could) keep sleepin, your wet dream is out with him
(see) do a lil’ yoga, a lil’ kama sutra
steakhouse n-gg-, used to be a ramen noodler
heavy on b and e’s, was a calm intruder
pumped a ruger, moms called me con and loser
i suggest you and your mans’ll regroup (why?)
bet against it, and probably can’t recoup – out!
[crooked i]
i point a pistol at your mamma mia
i’m sick as tyson in the ring at the colosseum with gonorrhea
f-ck a rapper, my clapper black as muhammadiya
f-ck you r&b b-tches, shut up! you not aaliyah
(ha ha!) when mr. porter record a piano
producers may wanna order some ammo
i’m a california corner reporter
your boy wasn’t born with a quarter bein poor as a wh-r- and i’m an aura
it’s sorta soprano; look here
we reinvent the wheel to have a (good year) – and y’all tired
we like tyler perry mixed with everlast
the house of payne/pain, slaughterhouse gang n-gg-!
[chorus]
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