| Poppa-Poppa Pistol stuck his dick in Momma Missile
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| and created Mr. Got-to-Get-You if he opposite just split
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| You niggaz bitches cranberry like a vodka mixer
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| Whippin bitches niggaz black, ass like a cotton picker
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| Bomb through debris — I’m holdin two pistols
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| in the form of a crosshair, I am armed to the T
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| I put on for my city, I take off for whoever
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| think I’m soft for my job of rappin, go back to clappin
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| Back to illin, back to dealin, back to coc-a-ina
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| Up the nose, that’s the feelin, sky the limit, that’s the ceilin
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| And the women is the whores, puttin numbers up for sales
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| It’s the score into hell, it’s the feel, it’s the feel
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| I can make noise when the gat blowwwww-ooooooh-oooh
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| The Slaughterhouse boys make the gat blowwwww-ohhhhh-ooooh
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| It’s a muh’fuckin Slaughterhouuuuuuuse
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| We outta here, we outta here, we outta here
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| It’s a muh’fuckin Slaughterhouse
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| We outta here, we outta here, we outta
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| I live my life like a hood bopper
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| touched by evil, all about bread and evil
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| Regular people lookin like bread to eagles with the desert eagle
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| Cordially they forcin me to act accordingly
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| When according to me my thoughts disorderly just like they outta be
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| It’s more to me in accord to me
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| Just mad at the smoke and the mirrors, image, perceptions and the forgery
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| Everything is a fraud to me
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| So until the boys wake up, me and my boys make up
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| Be with the toy sprayers, aimin noise makers at the noise makers (blam)
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| Best group ever, group of whoever who do it better
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| Bets placed on it (nigga!) number one got our face on it
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| And I make a case on it, treason
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| Every twelve months it’s huntin season
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| They call us Slaughterhouse for a reason!
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| Crooked!
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| Piano face Audemars, you haters know the time
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| Drug abusin fourth-grader, I mean a loaded nine
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| Hits in the stash, Ferrari Spider, the road is mine
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| Like lap dancers and bad brakes, I’m on the grind
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| So tell Officer Crawford that this is (Slaughterhouse)
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| And I left the next black president in his daughter’s mouth
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| Swallow my kids then I’m like, «Yo I gotta bounce»
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| Ben Franklin’s a math genius and every dollar counts
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| We takin over the game, go at you little wussies
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| (Why?) Cause that’s the sweetest joy next to gettin pussy
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| Somethin bad is emergin
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| Slaughter’s blowin up like a suicide bomber promised 70 virgins nigga
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| Ortiz!
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| One quarter of Slaughter reportin to you live
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| from a corner where reporters stop by
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| Since somebody playin pow-pow
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| shots fly out a glock-9 'til you cooked like a potpie
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| Take a look at everybody in my crew
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| bet you can’t find a member of the squad that is not fly
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| Anybody say they can see us they either lyin
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| or not wearin they glasses, apparently cock-eyed
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| We don’t shit, we ca-ca
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| We don’t spit, we emit lava
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| Got a grip on these hip-hoppers like a big lobster
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| Everybody know the deal when the hear the kid YOWWA!
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| Goo-goo, ga-ga, baby cryin 'bout the internet
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| They get on the site but they showed me and Joe the other night
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| takin flights then lightin up a cigarette
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| Motherfucker we ill, not one insect step short of the best thing
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| Everything we touch make they head swing and, y’all ain’t really interestin
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| Throw a shot, and our fans do the interceptin
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| You got the crowd fooled but I ain’t really into wrestlin (into wrestlin) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song We Outta Here , by - Slaughterhouse. Song from the album Escape Route, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп