Nobody Fucking With Us

[Verse 1: Bun B]

Let's get it started like transmission and alternators

Got the keys in the cage, ready for who you call the greatest

Taking 'em down from the biggest bitches to smallest haters

I'm 'bout to serve these niggas, call 'em waiters

Got my mind right, money right, ready for war

And I got the C4 under my competitor's car

These niggas running 'round, talking 'bout they better than moi

When I'm done, all that's gon' be left, bitch, is your head and your bra (Damn!)

Bitch, I'm the head of the pack, and I'm ahead of the game

And I put your head on a platter, you put some shit on my name

Bitch, I'm the shit—see the stains that I done left on the track?

And I ain't saying no names, but I left the best on they back

And they ain't saying no names, so I gotta say it myself

I'm finger-fucking this game, so you gotta play with yourself

Don't pull a K off the shelf or pull a strap out the stash

I ain't gotta draw the pistol, I'll be clap at your ass

I just let the hands of God toe-tap on you fast

Leave you mashed like potatoes on the top of the grass

Call the coppers to catch me and they'll just tell you to drop it

I'll find you sooner or later, and they can't do shit to stop it

Got that thang and I'ma pop it like a bubble on the double

I am trouble in the flesh, you can't see me with the Hubble

We ain't wishing these niggas good luck—go get a clover

This Bun B, it's B-E-3, this shit is over

[Interlude: Crooked I]

SLAUGHTERHOUSE!

Whoo Kid!

[Verse 2: Joe Budden]

Look at your man; look back at me; yeah, I know—sickening, huh?

If you got a Porsche with only two doors, then you need to upgrade, 'cause you missing some

We just got two different bills, different styles, different sums

Started as a drive-by, ended as a hit-and-run

Stop me in the streets, let it be properly when you greet

Fuck looking for me, I'm on your property if it's beef

Not for robbery of your piece; it's lobotomy with my peeps

That camaraderie is usually sodomy for the beat

'Less my critics put a lens on them, so I could look through it

"Shut the fuck up" probably mean that you too shook to do it

We'd see two pennies to your name, yet you so saucy

When I fix this game, you can thank me later for it—no Aubrey

Switch my demeanor up, I'm off my 380 shit

My future's bright, stars is by my head, baby shit

Make me sick, what you eat don't make me shit

Found out the reason they hate me is my God-like presence—must be atheist

While all of the frauds in rap is talking swag, put a fork in that

Slaughter's back; listen, nigga, I got houses all across the map

Even got a Boston pad, got this bitch from Boston, bad

Would put her in a wrestling move, but I heard she got that Boston Crab

Batteries in your back, go by what he say

Just need you to know that it's no leeway

And the tables'll turn—go DJ

So you know what that blindfold's for

That bloodshed's a secret, let's keep it behind closed doors

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]

Who you said was dope again?

Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

Who you said was hot again?

Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin' with us

Who you say could spit again?

Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

Who you say was dope again?

Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

[Verse 3: Crooked I]

I'm the present and the future

Like Christmas in 2012, I'm the present in the future

An executive producer

You will never get to choose your destiny 'cause you a pessimistic loser

Mess with me and I'll definitely shoot you

I'ma do's you like I'm repping the Yakuza

Die hard like I'm sexing with Medusa—do something, nigga!

Born thuggin', I don't fuck with the cops

Nuts hang down my pant leg, balls tucked in my socks

I ain't gotta act tough to get a couple of props

Little nigga raised hisself, I don't know what's up with my pops

Do I think I'm the dopest in America? I do

Make you switch your whole style like you're dating Erykah Badu

Pair of Ferragamo shoes, I will stomp you

I'm fucked up, like the relationship between Farrakhan and Jews

I'm spanking this instrumental, like a wrinkly old bitch

I'm whipping the kick and snare, make 'em pick they own switch

I'm smarter than computers that know how to fix they own glitch

I'll leave you face down, like chicks who lick they own tits

And from this day forward, Crooked is aging backwards

Getting younger and fresher, putting bums under some pressure, yes, sir!

Watch the next Slaughterhouse album

Every line is white powder—I ain't talking 'bout talcum

I am tighter than The Biggest Losers cruisin' in a SmartCar

Distinguished alky, the flask on the armoire

I'm from the home of the most popular bomb weed

Most proper, hoes rock with my partners who top-seed

Pour vodka, we gon' bottle-pop in the calm breeze

No copper can stop a COB star

I'm a giant, dumping my cigar ashes out on top of the palm trees

Chrome chopper: If I squeeze, you drop on the concrete

You wanna talk about the paper? Oh, let's do it

Battered-pocket syndrome—the money, we gon' abuse it

Still getting out-of-town paper so don't confuse it

Tell the hip-hop cops, "Nah, it's only music"

And haters steady eavesdroppin' on The Bar Exam

Probably in your trunk now dependin' on what car I ram

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]

Who you said was dope again?

Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

Who you said was hot again?

Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin' with us

Who you say could spit again?

Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

Who you say was dope again?

Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

[Verse 4: Royce Da 5'9"]

Flow tight—I should probably ghostwrite for your idol

My pen game is godlike; I could write for the Bible

I'm so good that after I rock it tonight

I'ma go "Sexual Chocolate!" and drop the mic

Don't even attempt to stop me, mention me, top me

My pencil is nice; you should only mentally be dropping the dice

I'm a speech beast; you best to not approach me

Matter of fact, I think I second that emotion, like a retweet

My stock going up like a Lamborghini door

I feel like Chuck Woolery in the damn Bellini store

You playing yourself—you remind me of the lotto

You was good, and then, you turned hood—you remind me of Moscato

I don't aim, I'm like Dick Cheney

The four spray and light your head up like Lo Pan when he gets angry

This ain't "Simon Says," bitch—this what Ryan says

I hit the track, and it's a wrap like Aunt Jemima head

I'm beyond out of my mind

If you can imagine using Magic's johnson without a condom, I'm bonkers!

Yeah, got the streets going, "Dude is tremendous"

If I come for your blood, I ain't gon' be using syringes

I am raw; there is a difference between I and y'all

You opposed, you throwing fireballs at an iron wall

The sound of Alan Grunblatt signing his name on the dotted line on that paper is your favorite rapper signing off

[Outro: Royce da 5'9"]

Ha, hahaha