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Hammer Dance (Slaughterhouse)

[Verse 1: Joell Ortiz] My real name, my rap shit No made up nigga, I’m straight up, nigga Still in the projects where I came up, nigga On a scaffold doing ten sets of ten, getting my weight up, nigga I’m no shooter, but my shooters’ll have your brain exposed But I’ll shoot five in a second, homie, and break your nose Talking past, I’m dead ass, I was living Life fast with my pistol in the grass Digging in my ass tryna finish up the last So I can sit it in a stash Old E. sweat dripping from the bag Milk crates sitting on the ave While I’m looking left and right for the niggas with the badge My mom’s dishes really had crack on ‘em 12 12s and I kept that shit packed for ‘em, yeah they came back for ‘em I can paint it so vivid cause I really lived it If rap fail, I stack bail, and show you how to get it! [Hook: Royce da 5'9"] I’m in the club, bottle in my hand doing my two step While I got my gun in my pants, call it the hammer dance Bitches dancing on a nigga when they feel the gun I tell ‘em we’re doing the hammer dance Two steppin’ with my weapon on me You good? I’m just checking, homie Fam-a-lam, you don’t stand a chance While I got this gun in my pants doing my hammer dance [Verse 2: Crooked I] In these LA times, I wake up on one House slippers and coffee, I know the paper gon’ come I drop shit that make the gangstas go dumb Keep a bad bitch naked like my waist with no gun I’m for real, how are you? Got street power, from the Watts Towers to Howard U How would you become me? I don’t do what you cowards do Flip a thousand pounds of that sour dies’ in a hour, dude I’m out my muh’fuckin’ mind Fuck a punchline, salute my muh’fuckin’ grind Ditching feds on the regular, they’re trying to catch a predator Not the Chris Hansen type, but the Danny Glover kind I’m a killer, everybody know I body your audio When a shotty blow, say goodbye to your barrio, you maricon You don’t think that I’m about this Ice grill, nigga, put your money where your mouth is [Hook] [Verse 3: Joe Budden] My real name, my rap shit Fuck with Chase, but the real bank is the mattress Money ain’t new to me, been getting G-stacks Since Smoove B took his shawty back from rehab Knife work with me, but the chrome is extra Case I’m in the same taxi as the bone collector Y’all rappin’ ’bout models, I get hounded by ‘em Not a killer at all, I’m just surrounded by ‘em Just a real nigga, straight from my mother’s stomach Ain’t enough cloth for all of us to be cut from it Not decided by who toast led Cause all of us would be angels for Pujols’ bread Lot of hostility, hollering is killing me Screaming “Over my dead body,” like it’s not a possibility On my Jers’ bullshit, never mind me But if it’s ever problems, niggas know where to find me [Hook]