a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

slaughterhouse - sway in the morning freestyle lyrics

[conversation]

[joell ortiz]
bars, my n-gga
we got y’all with those by far, my n-gga
above par repertoire’s bizarre
my ensemble scars your garbage artists
come learn who i are
it’s the boy from pr
brook-nam veteran
ex-drug-pedalin’ medicine by the jar
turn booth-superhuman
hear me roar
i start a stampede in a jungle with a ‘yaowa’, f-ck a tar-
zan, man, i’ll f-ck up the guitars
beat up any drums barehanded like a paw
million carrot diamond rhymin’ try to find a flaw
you better off tryna find a undiscovered dinosaur
in an unidentified flyin’ object flyin’ off
with nessi and the yeti takin’ selfies
all aboard
y’all n-ggas look bored
you wanna see a monster? well come on
it’s sway in the morn’
i transform like [khan/con]
edison
better than whatever you n-ggas is on
i can’t stomach y’all n-ggas
kettle corn
your designer umbrella can’t weather the storm
i’m pure toxic rain pourin’ in a metal form
magnetic maggots
i’ll rap you f-ggots with the track playin’ backwards and the protools crashin’
why you look surprised like you don’t know what happened
when ortiz decide to do a little bit a’ rappin’
my brain waves blackened
anything whole in front of me turns fraction
friction and fraction
listen, fric and frac, you no match when i’m spazzin’
so listen….

[conversation]

[royce da 5’9″]
i came into this game not needing too much paper
just a mic and a dream, then i ignited the scene
never wore a backpack much
but when i did i had steel in it big as the deal i had
if y’all open an act, n-ggas act hard at our rap sh-t
perhaps y’all can get the get the gat all access
we flippin’ y’all pack like pacquiao backwards
and we gon’ tax y’all like pacquiao taxes
i got a million-dollar p-ssy–ss mattress in the backyard behind a mansion next to a black car that i bought with a black card
that’s charge
we ’bout to bring back bars
you see that logo on that rolls-royce? that’s ours
i been a spaz
i spent a bad chick for the dinner tab in the rain and sent a cab
it’s a shame
who bullets ain’t got names?
i’m shootin’ 7.62s big enough to fit your first, middle, and your last
who wanna talk gun talk?
my guns talk loud as a perm
outta turn
it’s trinidad james
i handle business
banana clip animalistic
i put my hands around your mama throat and twist it until i hear it pop like i’m openin’ up a grocery store can of biscuits then send ya b-tch a random d-ck pic’
you like a semi who spit and you missed me
you like abe lincoln on a penny: you [innocent/’in a cent’] and you history

[conversation]

[joe budden]
acapella, acapella, acapella, acapella, acapella, acapella, acapella
ah…
they tell me life’s a b-tch, i’m just celebratin’ f-ckin’ it
table full of bottles now it’s lookin’ like my bucket list
forward thinker, i ain’t one to regress
payin’ no mind to these b-tches, they just come with success
i spent christmas as giftless, way too many decembers broke
never got a stamp, but found a way to push that envelope
they told me i’d be dead or never make it out
and it i ain’t accomplished sh-t else, least i erased the doubt
i’m so un-ssuming i can’t figure why i’m hated now
even made depression seem like that wasn’t a major bout
my dreams big, n-ggas try to take ’em down
but the jewel is in the perspective not the other way around
see my persona is calmer: obama blended with dahmer
ever ponder your kharma manjana could see a lama
and if a n-gga do, won’t be complaints from me
i’ll be all good with it
i did all i could with it
joey

[conversation]

[crooked i]
you know what sway? i got a question: “how did we end up here?”
we got our lessons from biggie and nas
remember ghetto n-ggas goin’ platinum like the 50s and jas?
now i’m against all odds and maybe against all broads
these new rap n-ggas out here dressin’ like nicki minaj
sellin’ they soul to make it wealthy
wearin’ denim shirts and women’s skirts on instagram takin’ selfies
i’ll celebrate the minute you die
and i’ll be here after the fireworks
5th of july
here lies a fictional writer considered a liar always rappin’ about trappin’ or what n-ggas did on the wire
then they ask me why i’m rappin’ like k!ller for hire
some n-ggas put my homie in a trunk and lit it on fire
you can hear my life’s pain in the way i spit
you think i give a f-ck if a dj play my sh-t?
like my sh-t?
put it in a club?
hype my sh-t?
i write my sh-t
the real n-ggas recite my sh-t
and your label? they own you
that ain’t no lease agreement
please believe it
got you on your knees and screamin’
lookin’ like you in the navy with a cold
’cause they d-ck so far up your -ssh0l-, you sneeze [and see men; in s-m-n]
then they put you on the label with the same n-ggas on them other singles
y’all just a bunch of lame n-ggas
you hot now, but how long will the sh-t last?
if i don’t feel your music, i ain’t rappin’ wit’cha b-tch -ss
and i still won’t come around broke
that hollow tip comin’ right out of that hundred round throat
when i’m buried 6 feet deep, countin’ eternal sheep
it’ll all make sense
i’ll be the underground goat
lyrical king
a syllable dream
n-ggas be a like a typical meme
i’m k!llin’ your dreams
i’ll pop you in your bed, dozin’
my shooters come out the closet quick as frank ocean
gotcha
i’m the illest lyricist of ’em all
i’m takin’ you n-ggas through lyrical trainin’
not givin’ a f-ck if you thinkin’ you famous
the bigger you are the harder you fall
i slip in the clip and i’ll set the apocalypse off
the shots could l1ck off
your life’ll get lost
and it’ll be your own fault
remember your own role
like a b-tch with a d-ld-, you [diggin’/dig in] your own hole
west coast
my kingdom is there
i’ve been underground for years
you’d think i would care
but mainstream artists with bars?
i could count ’em on one hand
still have a middle finger to spare
f-ck ’em
i ain’t playin’, i just tellin’ the truth
when i see a real emcee, i tell him ‘salute’
i turn sway in the morning into rap fix
i black out, blacker than used matchsticks
when i black out, i expose all you smoke and mirror n-ggas
’cause i’m like a retired gold digger: i’m past tricks
how hip hop is crooked i?
y’all don’t really know
i’m hip hop as basquiat in a blondie video
i’m hip hop as 2pac when he was signed to interscope
i’m spiritual as deepak, mix some gandhi with it, though
hold up, let’s get it, though
crooked the realest rapper
i feel i’m the illest trapper
i’m writin’ these illest chapters
wish i would’a been around dilla to k!ll a track or two
but i’ll be in the d where i chill with his benefactors
homie, i been a factor
my k!lla, i spit a rap to a track
i’m goin’ for that same feelin’ that em is after
because it’s bars first then it’s image after
the team is skin dark
the venice is fittin’ to sn-tch your b-tch
and attach her to my hip like the clapper
your girl’s over and your world’s over like the rapture
when i capture your mind, it’s like i fracture your spine
’cause i bring the crack back to the rhyme
nah
i don’t wanna be on your coon label
i dropped out of school to hustle for lunch
never sat at the cool table
i don’t wanna rap like you, be wack like you, or act like you
i just want the black and white coupe
topless like the aftermath of a cat fight
with 2 bad dyk-s in the back like ‘ooh’
and yes, right
i’m from long beach
where the fiends make a crack pipe out of a miniature 99 cent store flashlight
but you don’t know nothin’ about that life
you just act like you do
i start freestylin’
for everybody listenin’
this my n-gga joell
that’s nickel, he from michigan
that’s my n-gga joey and i’m with him to the bitter end
smackin’ babies at they christenin’
we on our sh-t again

[conversation]

- slaughterhouse lyrics

Random Lyrics

HOT LYRICS