| Yeah Brooklyn
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| I’m in the booth doin' my Joell Ortiz dance
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| Ah, ah, ah
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| Hahaa
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| Ever since I started hanging with Slim Shady, it’s making the pigs hate me
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| They racist as Dick Cheney; |
| scared to shake my hand and like maybe they get
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| rabies
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| They’re angry this shits crazy
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| So I’m fucking their hoes, their ladies get mixed babies
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| I live mainly like a role in a script
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| Written for somebody who holdin' his dick
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| That mean I never let a bitch play me, ay me?
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| I’m off beat, stop it Young Buck
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| You’re not hip to the flow fallin' in awkward pockets
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| Like the small one in top hip dumbfuck
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| (Crook keep going)
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| Teach your class while the speakers blast
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| New niggas out there eatin' ass; |
| bottoms up like they’re drinkin' glass
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| Sinkin' fast, not on no battleship
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| I’m not on no battle shit
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| I’m the king of spazz, ripping beats in half
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| The backroom to the cypher, nigga you name it
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| For Funk Flex, to weight scale, nigga you name it
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| (Keep going)
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| Hey you bitch niggas givin' me hell
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| Your body lean, when the shotty ring
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| Like freedom and crack, you’re like the Liberty Bell
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| A 180 spin then he fell
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| I’m givin' my enemies L’s
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| No disrespect, but I send them to where the Kennedy’s dwell
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| Sick as a Young Ozzy, Osbourne
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| I’s born to be a kamikaze, that’s airborne
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| Pop You like Asti Spumante
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| Body meet the concrete then I creep, then cock beat your auntie in rare form
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| Lames I never care for 'em
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| I’m callin' shots from a lawn chair with a air horn
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| Goin' hard on them hoes
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| If I sock-her it’s part of my goals, call it carnival closed
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| You’ve been fair warned
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| I even put a 187 on your spouse
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| Like she got aids/sperm on her mouth
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| That’s on the house!
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| Ay Crook, that’s how you feel huh?
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| I can dig it my G
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| House gang
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| This one’s on the house fellas
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| Hey Crook I’m doin' my dance too
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| It’s all head and shoulders, no shampoo
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| Beaver gang, who fucking with my damn crew?
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| Why the lights flickering? |
| Why the amp blew?
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| Cause I’m in this bitch, motherfucker, give me my chant (woo!)
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| Yaowa, I’m right at home I recite a poem
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| From inside my bone marrow narrow the microphone
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| Kings down to fall like you crawling tryin' to get out the door
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| But blaze behave, while we let the gasoline gallons pour
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| Better than whoever you pointing at
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| So though I’m not done, like a marijuana cypher, bring this joint back
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| Hey Crook I’m doin' my dance too
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| It’s all head and shoulders, god damn boo, you lickin' on the bamboo stick,
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| sugar
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| Prissy bitch, look where my dick took her
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| Don’t walk with your nose in the air, if you got big boogers
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| Puerto Rican 6 footers, sick shooter
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| 38 special with the speed loader, they call me quick nuqquh
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| Knick pusher, turn thick booker, rhyme spit, cooker
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| Slice and dice rap beef, I’m the clique’s butcher
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| Got Gotham city going insane
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| I’ll come out the bat cave holding a cane
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| Everyone remain calm, I’m Bruce Wayne
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| Where the fuck is Bane!?!
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| Maintain stamina, my AK caliber flow
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| And say hello and push your brainwaves out of you mang
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| See how you ride with your handlebars off of your frame
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| Throw grenades to your crib, bang: Housegang
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| In came the truth in 'em, out came you lames
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| We don’t play the skinny jeans and the blouse game
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| We just tryna feast; |
| bon Apetit
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| Your Chinese prisoners gonna eat: chow mein
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| Bitch nigga, tryna stop the kids figures
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| And I’ll put 'cho ass on a plate, like a pinch hitter
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| Don’t try to rob DeNiro from Ben Stiller
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| Cause I’ll meet you Fockers with a cold right, that’s a chinchilla |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song In the House , by - Slaughterhouse. Song from the album The Middle East Massacre, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп