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eminem freestyles on tim westwood | 2010 - eminem lyrics

[verse 1: mr. porter]
welcome to the ill world of mr. p-o
ayy, 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 yo’ 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 d-mn back
man, it’s ralph lauren, this ain’t no d-mn chaps
it’s all polo, i’m so pro though
you bird-crazy; el pollo loco
talkin’ about cheese and this ain’t no photo
askin’ about rings like the ho know frodo
you better get out of my house and sh-t
i think i threw up in my mouth a bit: i’m sick

[verse 2: royce da 5’9″]
n-ggas be lyin’, talkin’ about they bust a heater
once i see him, maybe more like justin bieber
leavin’ my rivals underground, like skyzoo’s, how i do
i have him layin’ in the street and bleedin’, b-tt-naked
with a bullet in his mothaf-ckin’ head like erykah badu
i find irony in bein’ in a place
where i’m wearin’ gucci, mane, gettin’ whiteboy wasted
i tell a n-gga: break bread or take lead
i’m tryin’ 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 rhymin’ “packin’ a mac” with “back of the acura”
or perhaps you can’t match my spectacular vernacular
you still rhymin’ bottles with models, college with knowledge
usin’ the word swagger, you’re probably garbage
you thugs funny, comparin’ 5’9″ to anybody
you comparin’ 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-t 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
amazin’ 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-t goin’ 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-t, 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-tch, 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 d-ck 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-tches should call nickle the don bishop
a poet, a mixture of don goines and john grisham
flow’ll have you rewindin’ 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-ck 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 in stevie’s shoe
i’m sick, i got the desert eagle flu
i’m rich, lil’ n-gga, 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
usin’ magic’s johnson without a condom, i’m bonkers
got the streets goin’, dude, it’s tremendous
if i come for your blood, i ain’t gon’ be usin’ syringes

[verse 6: eminem]
newsflash, i’m still trash
them pills shoulda k!lled my -ss
but they didn’t; they just made me stronger
it’s like they rebuilt my -ss
like the six million dollar man after the crash
it’s aftermath, b-tch! and my milk gl-ss is still half-empty
yeah, tempt me, h-ll 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-t, i done made a verse, said some foul sh-t
tryna go back fix it, f-cked 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 punchin’ the air
panties so in a bunch that they can’t function
it’s shady and royce, f-ck yeah! what a dysfunctional pair!
so stop actin’ like a punk, get a pair!
take a pill and fall the f-ck 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 cr-p
i am so much of a star, b-tch
that i can fart and p-ss on the red carpet
look, my bank account’s r-t-rded
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 carc-ss
and red m&ms chartered from charlotte
look, and if you try to act dumb and start sh-t
i just yell at ’em, like, “i’m the artist!”
infected — you know the deal
if you wanna play sick, we can all get ill
look, measles, mumps
i made you b-tches, 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 att-tude determines your lat-tude
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 seein’ beef, seein’ things
you musta 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-t
where the mayor went to jail
for bein’ a player right after proof split
levels the head of compet-tors, 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-ggie
i’m more hooder than black d-ckies
i rap like committin’ suicide
in the booth, takin’ 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 will knock a weenie off
put your body between chalk
i’m squeezin’ 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 -ss with a shard of gl-ss from nick hogan’s car crash
you may look like the p-ssenger for that, don’t be a smart-ss
yeah, laugh while you sit there
thinkin’ that the hard part p-ssed
you ain’t seen pain ’til leatherface flips mane
i’ll cut your f-ckin’ b-lls off, homie, my saw’s off the chain
i chopped the b-tch in half with it, sawed off her legs
and the top half of the torso f-ckin’ crawled off insane
i ain’t seen sh-t like that since i went to mike jack’s
took the elephant man’s skull, f-cked it, and put it right back
handed my d-ck to bubbles
while he sucked it and l!cked my nut sack
gave him a reach-around
while i f-cked him right in his b-tt crack
nah, i ain’t takin’ it back, f-ggot, f-ck that!
i give a f-ck about nothin’, so here’s where you f-cked up at
don’t go touchin’ that can
man, you don’t wanna open up that
wait a min, ah, sh-t… alchemist, cut that!

- eminem lyrics

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