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letra de we go hard - slaughterhouse

[intro: royce da 5’9″]
slaughterhouse movement
y’all n-ggas ain’t with us then what the f-ck is y’all doin’?
b-tches!

[interlude: crooked i]
yeah, brooklyn go hard
so does long beach
ugh
“brooklyn we go hard, we go hard”
crooked he go hard, he go hard (ya love hip hop)
crooked he go hard, he go hard
we still love this sh-t
what’s up my n-ggas?
i gotta re-educate my young n-ggas
it’s ya boy! 20 and under
we bout to flip this sh-t over again
listen

[verse one: crooked i]
i grind hard, treat a cop like an irrelevant wuss
so many pounds in the trunk call it elephant kush
you evidence givin’, sammy gravanos
couldn’t step in my ferragamos
even if you threw ’em at president bush
i’m back go start my controversy then p-ss to rick warren
whup -ss, you b-st-rds spit borin’, you have to get quaran-
‘tined, from the wack disease
i lean back with ease, s-cl-ss with six warrants
strapped with deez guns costin’ an arm and a leg like amputees
i go hard, and i ain’t tryin’ to say nothin’ to rappers gettin’ money
but i got a message for west coast djs
with c.o.b. in the club, i better hear some f-ckin’ “g-thang”
and i don’t wanna hear no autotune if it ain’t t-pain
wait, i like that ‘ye sh-t, i must admit
you other n-ggas… nah, f-ck that sh-t!
the miseducation of this generation for revenue
they missed innovation, this information they never knew
why i gotta dumb down? take a look at my house, n-gga
i’m in my master bedroom like a house n-gga
your crib on the hill ain’t f-ckin’ with ours
i’m so close to the little dipper
the stripper i’m f-ckin’? her nipples is touchin’ the stars
nah, i ain’t flossin’ in a recession
i’m talkin’ to rappers f-ckin’ off our profession
if i can’t spit bars and still live large
and still whip cars, i’m k!llin’ who’s in charge
even when i drop simple sh-t
the most intricate jewels are in every line
i just hide ’em behind the instruments, instrumentals
maybe i’m sentimental, bumpin’ nas when i’m in the rental
i’ll k!ll a pig, come visit me cause i’m in a kennel
gangsta rap, i’m gangsta plus i rap, strictly coincidental
i grew up around crips with prison tats
dealers who made a k!llin’ in the hood but they ain’t givin’ back
but they come to my show, i gotta give ’em that
they will kidnap n-ggas dissin’ my fitted cap
long beach, n-ggas doin’ drive-bys in hybrids
you like a d-ck in a dyk-‘s privates
you never go in, i go all out
pull a sawed off out, make you go the alternative route
i mean fall out, boy, y’all know who i am
i’m ill as yellow sneakers fam, sh-t god d-mn

[verse two: royce da 5’9″]
i’m a from a grimy city, from a bunch of miles away (c’mon!)
with no regards for the laws, i’m from a sovereign state (ha-ha!)
from a murderous block (nah), swervin’ in a convertible drop
makin’ sure you heard my proverbial plots (woo!)
i’m tryin’ to take over the world like pinky the brain
my dream mistress is a b-tch like pinky with brains (that’s right)
or roxy reynolds, i’d stick d-ck into her
she suck c-ck for livin’, tongue kiss with murs (oh!)
but i don’t feel anger (ah!)
so like the frame of the nickel-plated chrome .45
i’ma still bang her (yes!)
original renegade, n-ggas still afraid (ha-ha!)
more n-ggas follow than ashton kutcher’s twitter page (woo!)
chowder time, y’all write, i sprinkle powder lines
if kelly beat his case, my lawyer gon’ swallow mines (yes)
so put your nines on the cr-p table
you life gamblin’, i’m patrón sippin’, signed to black label (oh!)
champagne wishes become realities (yes!)
bad b-tches fly, minus the travel needs (yes!)
my d-ck is the biggest thing on my anatomy
i diss n-ggas for nothin’ like, “why you mad at me?”
(“why you mad at me?”)
haha! nickel is definitely still reckless (yes!)
the last n-gga done got k!lled
that made me feel threatened (true story! hahaha)
who really cares what a rapper talkin’?
the only feelin’ that ain’t familiar is after losses
i shoot edo g in the head and go back to boston (brrrat!)
with a trunk full of white, we call it asher rothin’
feel honored if i talk about your -ss often
you should wanna sleep in the bed i was jackin’ off in (ho!)
there’s a reason these motherf-ckers are backin’ off him (why?)
he floyd mayweather, paul williams and chad dawson (haha)
all rolled up in one; his money trash talkin’
amongst bosses, chillin’ out in the cash office (woo!)
n-gga, you testin’ the one, nickel second to none (nice)
i’m hotter than texas at three, i’m affecting the sun (pah!)
i don’t just sound raw, i’ll disconnect your sh-t
have you walkin’ around with bobby brown jaw (oh!)
and then whitney said crack was wack
and it offended me like, “floozy, why you dissin’ my music?”
and you can ask proof, we come from chopper city
minus the wack suit and the beef with ness (ha!)
forever inhalin’ the smell of that sweet success (yes!)
that khaled c0ke talkin’, sayin’ “we the best!”
i’m a fan-teaser
this b-tch said, “who the f-ck died and made you god?”
i said, “jesus” (c’mon!) haha
i’m in the zone, i feel like a star
and n-gga you know what to do if you feel like a frog
go and jump in that traffic, you playin’ frogger
i ain’t no blogger, i’m mr. rearrange your aura (yes!)
n-ggas thinkin’ all i got is internet soldiers
’09 is the fear year, respect’s over
the o.g.s taught me how to do it one way (one)
so i ain’t down for no games unless it’s gunplay (uh-uh)
n-ggas will murder judges (judges)
over murder grudges (grudges)
i don’t put money on heads, i just refer to cousins (uh-huh)
i drop dope records that’s hot like a furnace
the needle on that record player is hypodermic (yes)
they feed food from an intravenous tube (tube)
k!ll your -ss in private, between me and you (haha)
i’m sick enough to go up in your house
sick of them rhymes, i spit ’em and throw up in my mouth (oh!)
you f-ckin’ around with the slaughterhouse conglomer-ahd (yes)
like catchin’ your parents f-ckin’, i’ll leave you traumatized
the beef lives till the drama dies (dies)
my daughter can get struck by lightning
if i ain’t down for homicide (oh!)
you don’t believe in me, you a atheist thug (c’mon, n-gga!)
my b-tch p-ssy delicious, it’s the flavor of love
f-ck what they say, i tattoo your face
danger, but it ain’t for the love of ray j (ha-ha!)
i got a carhartt, i call my p-n-s “d-ckie”
before i let you bullsh-t me, i let serena kick me (it’s true!)
and she got thunder thighs, i can just be so heartless
and give you the business, but i ain’t from the chi
a product of the boards where berry gordy records
i’m talkin’ a-1 yola; this totally pure (yes!)
i flow bodies of waters, dead fishermen haunt me
i got the temper of a trigger, the d-ck of a donkey (oh!)
i’m a soldier boy (yes!), yeah, i’m the last breathin’
no need to turn on my swag, c’mon, i’m swag sleepin’ (yes!)
y’all flows are old, y’all sound like last weekend
i’m marty, delorean partying with a bad ‘rican

[interlude: royce da 5’9″]
slaughterhouse in this b-tch, n-gga
sucker-free, f-ck a b-tch n-gga

[verse three: joell ortiz]
brooklyn! let me get a shot at that, holla back (geah!)
down the block from marcy and cooper, this guy can rap
ortiz, i’m an animal (oh!), flow sh-t sick
had midgets in the hospital a few blocks from you (haha!)
wood hall, i stood tall in every battle
hip-hop’s like football, i’m hard to tackle
i’m from where they clap a mac at you then have a snapple
the rotten part of the apple, abandoned tabernacles (woo!)
ten-speeds, being peddled by chain sn-tchers
good weed, we drug-pedal and aim ratchets
if you from my berg you know we insane b-st-rds so
on the hottest day we sport rain jackets (ahh!)
get your brain splattered for a cocaine package
for a little chump change, they push your rogaine backwards (grrrr-t!)
i don’t know where you from, but where i’m from it’s no good
better take the backstreets to check a chick in my hood (oh!)

- slaughterhouse

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