Royce Da 5'9" - Nobody f***ing with us (feat. bun b & slaughterhouse) lyrics

[Bun B] Let's get it started like transmission and alternators Got the keys in the cage ready for who you call the greatest Takin 'em down from the biggest b**hes to smallest haters I'm 'bout to serve these n***as, call 'em waiters Got my mind right, money right, ready for war And I got the C4, under my competitor's car These n***as runnin 'round talkin 'bout they better than moi When I'm done all that's gon' be left b**h is ya head and ya bra b**h I'm ahead of the pack, and I'm ahead of the game And I put yo' head on a platter you put some sh** on my name b**h I'm the sh**, see the stains that I done left on the track? And I ain't sayin no names but I left the best on they back And they ain't sayin no names so I gotta say it myself I'm finger f**in 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 will chop at yo' a** I just let the hands of God toe-tap on you fast Leave you mashed like potatoes on the top of the gra** 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 sh** 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 wishin these n***as good luck, go get a clover This Bun B, it's "B.E. 3," this sh** is over [Crooked I] SLAUGHTERHOUUUUUSE! (Whoo, Kiiiiiiiid!) [Joe Budden] Look at ya man look back at me, yeah I know, sickenin huh? Few got a Porsche with only two doors, need to upgrade cause you missin 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 f** lookin for me, I'm on your property if it's beef Not for robbery of ya piece, it's lobomomy with my peeps That comraderie is usually sodomy for the beat 'Less my critics put a lens on them, so I could look through it Shut the f** 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 sh** My, future's bright, stars is by my head, baby sh** Make me sick, what you eat don't make me sh** Found out the reason they hate me is my God-like presence, must be athiest While all of the frauds in rap is talkin swag put a fork in that Slaughter's back, listen n***a I got houses all across the map Even got a Boston pad, got this b**h from Boston bad Well put her in a wrestlin 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 lee-way, and the tables are turned, go DJ So you know what that blindfold's for That bloodshed's a secret, let's keep it behind closed doors [Chorus: Royce Da 5'9"] Who you said was dope again? Ay, it ain't nobody f**in with us, nobody f**in with us Who you said was hot again? Ay ay, it ain't nobody f**in with us, nobody f**in with us Who you say could spit again? Ay, it ain't nobody f**in with us, nobody f**in with us Who you say was dope again? Ay ay, it ain't nobody f**in with us, nobody f**in with us [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 ya destiny cause you a pessimistic loser Mess with me and I'll definitely shoot ya I'ma do's ya like I'm reppin the Yakuza Die hard like I'm s**in with Medusa, do somethin n***a Born thuggin, I don't f** with the co*k Nuts hang down my pant leg, balls tucked in my socks I ain't gotta act tough to get a couple of props Little n***a 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 datin Erykah Badu Pair of Ferragamo shoes, I will stomp you I'm f**ed up, like the relationship between Farrakhan and Jews I'm spankin this instrumental, like a wrinkly old b**h I'm whippin 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 Gettin younger and fresher, puttin bums under some pressure Yes sir! Watch the next Slaughterhouse album Every line is white powder, I ain't talkin 'bout talcum I am tighter than "The Biggest Losers" cruisin in a Smart car Distinguished alkie, 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 Po' vodka, we gon' bottle pop in the calm breeze No copper can stop a COB star - I'm a giant Dumpin 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 Batter pocket syndrome, the money we gon' abuse it Still gettin 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 [Chorus]