[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]
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]