Nobody Fucking With UsRoyce da 5'9"

[Verse 1: Bun B]
Let's get it started like transmission and alternators
Got the keys in the cage, ready for who you call the greatest
Taking 'em down from the biggest bitches to smallest haters
I'm 'bout to serve these niggas, call 'em waiters
Got my mind right, money right, ready for war
And I got the C4 under my competitor's car
These niggas running 'round, talking 'bout they better than moi
When I'm done, all that's gon' be left, bitch, is your head and your bra
Bitch I'm the head of the pack, and I'm ahead of the game
And I put your head on a platter, you put some shit on my name
Bitch, I'm the shit—see the stains that I done left on the track?
And I ain't saying no names, but I left the best on they back
And they ain't saying no names, so I gotta say it myself
I'm finger-fucking 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'll be clap at your ass
I just let the hands of God toe-tap on you fast
Leave you mashed like potatoes on the top of the grass
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 shit 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 wishing these niggas good luck—go get a clover
This Bun B, it's B-E-3, this shit is over

[Interlude: Crooked I]
SLAUGHTERHOUUUUUSE! (Whoo, Kiiiiiiiid!)

[Verse 2: Joe Budden]
Look at your man; look back at me
Yeah, I know—sickening, huh?
If you got a Porsche with only two doors
Then you need to upgrade, 'cause you missing 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
Fuck looking for me, I'm on your property if it's beef
Not for robbery of your piece; it's lobotomy with my peeps
That camaraderie is usually sodomy for the beat
'Less my critics put a lens on them, so I could look through it
"Shut the fuck 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 shit
My, future's bright, stars is by my head, baby shit
Make me sick, what you eat don't make me shit
Found out the reason they hate me is my God-like presence
Must be atheist
While all of the frauds in rap is talking swag, put a fork in that
Slaughter's back; listen, nigga, I got houses all across the map
Even got a Boston pad, got this bitch from Boston, bad
Would put her in a wrestling 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 leeway
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

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]
Who you said was dope again?
Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us
Who you said was hot again?
Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin' with us
Who you say could spit again?
Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us
Who you say was dope again?
Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

[Verse 3: 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 your destiny
'Cause you a pessimistic loser
Mess with me and I'll definitely shoot you
I'ma do's you like I'm repping the Yakuza
Die hard like I'm sexing with Medusa—do something, nigga!
Born thuggin', I don't fuck with the cops
Nuts hang down my pant leg, balls tucked in my socks
I ain't gotta act tough to get a couple of props
Little nigga 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 dating Erykah Badu
Pair of Ferragamo shoes, I will stomp you
I'm fucked up, like the relationship between Farrakhan and Jews
I'm spanking this instrumental, like a wrinkly old bitch
I'm whipping 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
Getting younger and fresher, putting 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 SmartCar
Distinguished alky, 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
Pour vodka, we gon' bottle-pop in the calm breeze
No copper can stop a COB star
I'm a giant, dumping 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
Battered-pocket syndrome—the money, we gon' abuse it
Still getting 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

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]
Who you said was dope again?
Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us
Who you said was hot again?
Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin' with us
Who you say could spit again?
Ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us
Who you say was dope again?
Ayy, ayy, it ain't nobody fuckin' with us, nobody fuckin' with us

[Verse 4: Royce Da 5'9"]
Flow tight—I should probably ghostwrite for your idol
My pen game is Godlike; I could write for the Bible
I'm so good that after I rock it tonight
I'ma go "Sexual Chocolate!" and drop the mic
Don't even attempt to stop me, mention me, top me
My pencil is nice; you should only mentally be dropping the dice
I'm a speech beast; you best to not approach me
Matter of fact, I think I second that emotion, like a retweet
My stock going up like a Lamborghini door
I feel like Chuck Woolery in the damn Bellini store
You playing yourself—you remind me of the lotto
You was good, and then, you turned hood
You remind me of Moscato
I don't aim, I'm like Dick Cheney
The four spray and light your head up
Like Lo Pan when he gets angry
This ain't "Simon Says," bitch—this what Ryan says
I hit the track, and it's a wrap like Aunt Jemima head
I'm beyond out of my mind
If you can imagine using Magic's johnson without a condom, I'm bonkers!
Yeah, got the streets going, "Dude is tremendous"
If I come for your blood, I ain't gon' be using syringes
I am raw; there is a difference between I and y'all
You opposed, you throwing fireballs at an iron wall
The sound of Alan Grunblatt signing his name on the dotted line on that paper is your favorite rapper signing off

[Outro: Royce da 5'9"]
Ha, hahaha