Mr. Porter - Westwood Freestyle 2010 lyrics

[Verse 1: Mr. Porter] Welcome to the ill world of Mr. P-O Aye, keep the talk, B, I'm tryna see dough If it ain't about bread, what we gon' speak fo'? If it ain't no lead, then it ain't no beef, bro You better get a leash, ‘cause your freak ho Specialize in wood, like she Home Depot I'm like Chico DeBarge, we stars Roscoe P. Coltrane in these bars, man Amtrak, I'll break her damn back, man It's Ralph Lauren, this ain't no damn Chaps It's all Polo, I'm so pro though You bird-crazy; El Pollo Loco Talking 'bout cheese and this ain't no photo Asking 'bout rings like the ho know Frodo You better get out of my house and sh** I think I threw up in my mouth a bit, I'm sick [Verse 2: Royce da 5'9"] n***as be lying, talking 'bout that, bust a heater Once I see him, maybe more like Justin Bieber Leaving my rivals underground, like Skyzoo's, how I do I have him laying in the street and bleeding, bu*t-naked With a bullet in his mothaf**in' head, like Erykah Badu I find irony in being in a place Where I'm wearing Gucci, mane, getting whiteboy wasted I tell a n***a, break bread or take lead I'm trying to get rid of this weight, like K-Fed Me and Denaun got a gangsta bond We like that once-in-a-lifetime Thing to you; that ain't the prom The next MC that rhyme official, with ref, with a whistle That ain't Young Money, I'ma definitely diss you If you rhyming "packing a MAC" with "back of the Acura" Or perhaps you can't match my spectacular vernacular You still rhyming bottles with models, college for knowledge Using the word swagger, you're probably garbage You thugs funny, comparing 5'9" to anybody You comparing Superman to Bugs Bunny [Verse 3: Eminem] I'm like a white Michael – Vick, psycho enough to stick Michael J. Fox in a microwave with a Rott I might make a little Alizé with a side of NyQuil And ride a motorcycle bike Right through the side of my high school Satan's disciple with a sniper rifle And a knife and a white diaper Liable to sh** on you while I snipe you So dope he gets off opiates What an appropriate way to start off his day! He may just smart off to Dre He may be hard to contain, ‘cause his rage is so hard to gauge See, Hannibal ate his face, and met Jason, gnawed off his leg Amazing hard-on for razors and blades And anything sharp, even poisonous darts It all plays a major part of his game Holy water won't ward him off, crucifixes won't do the trick He's so sick, it's ridiculous, sawed the crazy part off his brain He's still insane; why's there bloodstains on his carpet, mane? There's some crazy sh** going on in Shady's apartment again [Verse 4: Mr. Porter] Okay, it's back to the blocks, slingin' yay like the old days Superman on the beat, I carry my whole state You wooden legs to a house; you can't hold weight Oh sh**, it's O'Shea Jackson…okay A little bit of this twisted out with Obama in it Mr. Porter back with anthrax, like Osama sent him b**h, I'm all that, I drive the girls crazy They gotta look at Rorschachs to get they thoughts back I ain't a small fry, small ticker, small tack I make 'em all cry with big dick and raw sack The potblood of science to return a raw rap I'm the best, mane; Eli Porter stance [Verse 5: Royce da 5'9"] Y'all b**hes should call Nickle the Don Bishop A poet, a mixture of Don Goines and John Grisham Flow'll have you rewinding it four or five times That landmine rhyme written with porcupine line Step up in here with the Slaughterhouse C.O.B. Gang will approach you And bend your gun barrel to a horseshoe Only f** with monsters, we the truth Monsters will pop up on you Like you said "Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice." I can't even see the booth, I could fit Stevie's shoe I'm sick, I got the Desert Eagle flu I'm rich, lil' n***a, we don't need a cent, we Teflon The doctor tried to take blood, the needle bent; ask Mom Outta my mind if you can imagine Using Magic's johnson without a condom, I'm bonkers Got the streets going, dude, it's tremendous If I come for your blood, I ain't gon' be using syringes [Verse 6: Eminem] Newsflash, I'm still trashed Them pills should've k**ed my a** But they didn't; they just made me stronger It's like they rebuilt my a** Like the Six Million Dollar Man after the crash It's Aftermath, b**h! And my milk gla** is still half-empty Yeah, tempt me; Hell isn't enough They need to invent somewhere new to send me As sick as I'm getting They'll stick me in a conventional oven With a rotisserie setting and won't even notice me sweating sh**, I done made a verse, said some foul sh** Tryna go back fix it, f**ed around, and just made it worse Yeah, I'm back, looking no worse for wear Got these haters mad enough to rip off their hair And start punching the air Panties so in a bunch that they can't function It's Shady and Royce, f** yeah, what a dysfunctional pair! So stop acting like a punk, get a pair! Take a pill and fall the f** out, spill your lunch in the chair! [Verse 7: Mr. Porter] Look, I'm sick, somebody better get the Dimetapp Who I gotta shoot just to prove that I can rap? People ask where my shine is at I say check the liner notes, I done done all kinda crap I am so much of a star, b**h That I can fart and piss on the red carpet Look, my bank account's retarded My debit card's got a helmet and a harness Hey, meet demands, but they all are harmless At shows, my riders always the largest I need four pounds of fried poultry carca** And red M&Ms chartered from Charlotte Look, and if you try to act dumb and start sh** I just yell at 'em, like, "I'm the artist!" In fact that you know the deal If you wanna play sick, we can all get ill Look, measles, mumps, I made you b**hes I don't need you chumps Y'all got cheese and I need my chunks Hurry up, so I can go to burn rubber and get some more dunks [Verse 8: Royce da 5'9"] Now, if your attitude determines your latitude This house that we call hip-hop, I'm in the attic, fool A mic and two turntables, fit for the unstable Converted to a padded room Keep a street sweeper; in fact, I call the mag a broom You seeing beef, seeing things You must've had yourself a bag of shrooms I make a call, make 'em fake a fall My clique is too sick, say goodbye In the streets where the stakes is high, like Ruth's Chris I'm from the city of true sh** Where the mayor went to jail For being a player right after Proof split Levels the head of competitors, Royce that I'm drinkin' everyday 'til Hex Murda get his regular voice back Ras, I got ya, look scared at ya, blast from ya From a block away; ask Tricky, I'm that n**ie I'm more hooder than black Dickies I rap like committing suicide in the booth Taking the track with me Patrón's in my chromosomes In order to leave it alone, you have to ween me off That Lorena Bobbitt chopper'd, knock a weenie off Put your body between chalk I'm squeezing the 9 iron, like I'm swingin' golf I'm with the best rapper alive, put somethin' on it Your sound's plain as a cheeseburger with nothin' on it [Verse 9: Eminem] I'll do a hundred-yard dash just to slash Kim Kardash' In the a** with a shard of gla** from Nick Hogan's car crash You may look like the pa**enger for that, don't be a smarta** Yeah, laugh while you sit there Thinkin' that the hard part pa**ed You ain't seen pain 'til Leatherface flips, mayne I'll cut your f**ing balls off, homie, my saw's off the chain I chopped the b**h in half with it, sawed off her legs And the top half of the torso f**ing crawled off insane I ain't seen sh** like that since I went to Mike Jack's Took the Elephant Man's skull, f**ed it, and put it right back Handed my dick to Bubbles While he s**ed it and licked my nut sack Gave him a reach-around While I f**ed him right in his bu*t crack Nah, I ain't takin' it back, f*ggot, f** that! I give a f** about nothin', so here's where you f**ed up at Don't go touchin' that can, man, you don't wanna open up that Wait a min, ah, sh**... Alchemist, cut that!