Lyrics Remember Me? - Eminem, RBX, Sticky Fingaz

Remember Me?

For this one it’s the X, you retarded?
Cause I grab the mic and get DOWN, like Syndrome
Hide and roam into the masses, without boundaries
Which qualifies me for the term «universal»
Without no rehearsal, I leak words that’s controversial
Like I’m not, the one you wanna contest, see
Cause I’ll hit yo' a*s like the train did that b*tch
That got «Banned From TV» — heavyweight hitter
Hit you watch your whole head split up
Loco-is-the-motion, we comin through
Hollow tips is the lead, the .45 threw
Remember me?
(«Throw ya gunz in the air!»)
Remember me?
(«Slam! Slam!»)
Remember me?
(«Nigga 'Bacdafucup'»)
Remember me?
(«Chka-chka-Onyx!»)
Niggaz that take no for an answer, get told no
Yeah I been told no but it was more like, «No, no, no!»
Life a b*tch that’ll f*ck you if you let her
Better come better than better to be a competitor
This vet is ahead of
The shit is all redder, you deader and deader
A medic instead-a the cheddars and credda
Settle vendetta one metal beretta from ghetto to ghetto
Evidence?
NOPE!
Never leave a shred-of
I got the soul of every rapper in me, love me or hate me
My moms got raped by the industry and made me
I’m the illest nigga ever, I told you
I get more pus*y than them dyke b*tches Total
Want beef, nigga?
PBBT!
You better dead that sh*t
My name should be «Can't-Believe-That-Ni*ga-Said-That-Shit»
Probably sayin, «He ain’t a killer», but I’m killin myself
Smoke death, f*ck b*tches raw, on the kitchen floor
So think what I’ma do to you, have done to you
Got nig*gaz in my hood who’d do that sh*t for a blunt or two
What you wanna do, cocksuckers?
We glock busters
'Til the cops cuff us, we’ll start ruckus and drop blockbusters
'Round the clock hustlers, you cannot touch us
I’m gettin wires niggaz wantin me dead, wantin my head
You think it could be somethin I said?
Remember me?
(«I just don’t give a fuck!»)
Remember me?
(«Yeah, f*ck you too!»)
Remember me?
(«I'm low down and I’m shifty!»)
Remember me?
(«I'm Shady!»)
When I go out, I’ma go out shootin
I don’t mean when I die, I mean when I go out to the club, stupid
I’m tryin to clear up my f*ckin' image
so I promised the f*ckin critics
I wouldn’t say «f*ckin» for six minutes
(*click* Six minutes, Slim Shady, you’re on)
My baby’s mom, b*tch made me an angry blonde
So I made me a song, killed her and put Hailie on
I may be wrong, I keep thinkin these crazy thoughts
In my cranium, but I’m stuck with a crazy mom
(«Is she really on as much dope as you say she’s on?»)
Came home, and somebody musta broke in the back window
And stole two loaded machine guns and both of my trenchcoats
Sick sick dreams of picnic scenes, two kids, sixteen
With M-16's and ten clips each
And them shits reach through six kids each
And Slim gets blamed in Bill Clint’s speech to fix these streets?
F*CK THAT!
PBBT!
Tou faggots can vanish to volcanic ash
And re-appear in hell with a can of gas, AND a match
Aftermath, Dre, grab the gat, show 'em where it’s at
(What the fuck you starin at, ni*ga?)
Don’t you remember me?
Remember me?
Remember me?
REMEMBER ME!