Sun Doobie - Slaughterhouse

As long as I got my pen I don’t need a friend

We got ears that we each’ll lend each other, my brother just hollered at me

again

He said he tired of all the lyin, deceivin and

Dick-ridin the people providin on every beat but when

I do it it’s stupid, I bruise it like a bad bitch

I lose it, my music’s a movement and they just mad stiff

I told 'em it’s mathematical in this pad lift

Point 'em out and I will subtract him, with an ad lib

See the fact is (what) I’m a bastard

How can I not be Macho, Man?

I’m a Savage

In the past I was passive, now I’m mad bitch

I’m spazzin, you get an Adidas classic where yo' ass is

Eh-eh, eh-eh, Nickel ain’t the one at all

Snatch your vocal chords out then plug 'em in my wall

You a knife at a gun fight, our shit is raw

You a square, you’re silverware in a civil war

The Slaughterhouse wolf pack, riders under the moon

The reason you itchin wit’cha lighter under your spoon

I’m a lover, the lead bustin is old to me

You put your head in her butt, I headbutt the ovaries

God dipped me in war paint for all weathers

I’m Mr. spill the liquor on my alcohol tether

No need to ride with nobody, I feel the heat can help me

Your jean’s skinnier than Em is when he eatin healthy, hahaha

WHOA, WHOA, WHOA

WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, Shaaady!

WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, WHOA

WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, WHOA

Outnumbered, outspoken, outcasted

Outweighed outrageous odds and outlasted

Outlandish, so I learned to outwit 'em

I outsmart 'em, outgrew 'em, I outdid 'em

Cream, out-bid 'em, team can’t out-spit him

(You could) Keep sleepin, your wet dream is out with him

(See) Do a lil' yoga, a lil' kama sutra

Steakhouse nigga, used to be a Ramen Noodler

Heavy on B and E’s, was a calm intruder

Pumped a Ruger, moms called me con and loser

I suggest you and your mans’ll regroup (why?)

Bet against it, and probably can’t recoup — out!

I point a pistol at your mamma mia

I’m sick as Tyson in the ring at the Colosseum with gonorrhea

Fuck a rapper, my clapper black as Bahamadia

Fuck you R&B bitches, shut up!

You not Aaliyah

(Ha ha!) When Mr. Porter record a piano

Producers may wanna order some ammo

I’m a California corner reporter

Your boy wasn’t born with a quarter, bein' poor was a horror

And now my aura is sorta Soprano;

look here

We reinvent the wheel to have a good year — and y’all tired

We like Tyler Perry mixed with Everlast

The House of Payne/Pain, Slaughterhouse gang nigga!