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  • Текст песни Slaughterhouse - Hammer Dance

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    Тут находится текст песни Slaughterhouse - Hammer Dance, а также перевод, видео и клип.

    [Verse 1: Joell Ortiz]
    My real name, my rap shit
    No made up nigga, I'm straight up, nigga
    Still in the projects where I came up, nigga
    On a scaffold doing ten sets of ten, getting my weight up, nigga
    I'm no shooter, but my shooters'll have your brain exposed
    But I'll shoot five in a second, homie, and break your nose
    Talking past, I'm dead ass, I was living
    Life fast with my pistol in the grass
    Digging in my ass tryna finish up the last so I can sit it in a stash
    Old E. sweat dripping from the bag
    Milk crates sitting on the ave
    While I'm looking left and right for them niggas with the badge
    My mom's dishes really had crack on 'em
    12 12s and I kept that shit packed for 'em, yeah they came back for 'em
    I can paint it so vivid cause I really lived it
    If rap fail, I stack bail, and show you how to get it!

    [Hook: Royce da 5'9"]
    I'm in the club, bottle in my hand doing my two step
    While I got my gun in my pants, call it the hammer dance
    Bitches dancing on a nigga when they feel the gun
    I tell 'em we're doing the hammer dance
    Two steppin' with my weapon on me
    You good? I'm just checking, homie
    Fam-a-lam, you don't stand a chance
    While I got this gun in my pants doing my hammer dance

    [Verse 2: Crooked I]
    In these LA times, I wake up on one
    House slippers and coffee, I know the paper gon' come
    I drop shit that make the gangstas go dumb
    Keep a bad bitch naked like my waist with no gun
    I'm for real, how are you?
    Got street power, from the Watts Towers to Howard U
    How would you become me? I don't do what you cowards do
    Flip a thousand pounds of that sour dies' in a hour, dude
    I'm out my muh'fuckin' mind
    Fuck a punchline, salute my muh'fuckin' grind
    Ditching feds on the regular, they're trying to catch a predator
    Not the Chris Hansen type, but the Danny Glover kind
    I'm a killer, everybody know I body your audio
    When a shotty blow, say goodbye to your barrio, you maricon
    You don't think that I'm about this
    Ice grill, nigga, put your money where your mouth is

    [Hook]

    [Verse 3: Joe Budden]
    My real name, my rap shit
    Fuck with Chase, but the real bank is the mattress
    Money ain't new to me, been getting G-stacks
    Since Smoove B took his shawty back from rehab
    Knife work with me, but the chrome is extra
    Case I'm in the same taxi as the bone collector
    Y'all rappin' 'bout models, I get hounded by 'em
    Not a killer at all, I'm just surrounded by 'em
    Just a real nigga, straight from my mother's stomach
    Ain't enough cloth for all of us to be cut from it
    Not decided by who toast led
    Cause all of us would be angels for Pujols' bread
    Lot of hostility, hollering is killing me
    Screaming "Over my dead body," like it's not a possibility
    On my Jers' bullshit, never mind me
    But if it's ever problems, niggas know where to find me

    [Hook]

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