Slaughterhouse - Sun doobie

You get more for your money when you fuck Mr. Porter

As long as I got my pen, I don't need a friend,
We got ears that we each lend each other,
My brother just hollered at me at ten
He said he tired of all the lyin', deceivin' and
Dickridin', the people providin' on every people when,

I do it, it's stupid, I bruise it like a bad pitch,
I lose it, my musics a movement and they just mad stiff,
I told 'em it's mathematical when this pad lift,
Point 'em out and I will subtract them, with an adlib,

See the fact is, 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 them Adidas classic where your ass is,

Uh-uh, uh-uh, nickel ain't the one at all,
Snatch your vocal cords out and plug 'em in my wall,
You a knife in a gun fight, our shit is raw,
You're a square, you're silverware in a civil war,

The Slaughterhouse wolf pack riders is under the moon,
The reason you itchin' with your lighter under your spoon,
I'm a lover, the lead bustin' is over me,
You put your head in the butt, I'll head butt 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 that he can help me,
Your jeans skinnier than Em when he's eatin' healthy,

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,
Whoa, whoa, whoa,
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, outdid 'em,

Cream, outfit 'em,
Team can't outspit 'em,
(You could) keep sleepin' your wet dream is out wit'em,
(See) Doin' a little yoga, a little karma sutra,
Steak house nigga, used to be a Ramen noodler,

Heavy on B and E's, was a calm intruder,
Pumped the ruger, moms called me con and loser,
I suggest you and your mans should regroup,
Bet against it, probably can't recoup, out

I point a pistol at your mama mia,
I'm sick as Tyson in the ring at the Colosseum with gonorrhea,
Fuck a rapper, my clapper black as Muhammadiya,
Fuck you R&B bitches, shut up, you're not Aaliyah,

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,
Being poor as a whore and I'm an aura that's sorta soprano,

Look here,
We reinvent the wheel to have a good year,
And y'all tired,
We're like Tyler Perry mixed with Everlast,
The house of pain, Slaughterhouse Gang nigga,

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa,
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,

Mr. Porter,
Mr. Porter,
Mr. Porter

Writers: Denaun M. Porter , Dominick Wickliffe , RYAN D. MONTGOMERY , Joell Ortiz , JOSEPH ANTHONY BUDDEN

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group , THE ADMINISTRATION MP INC

Lyrics licensed by LyricFind