Nobody Fucking With Us Lyrics - Royce Da 5'9

[Bun B] 

Let's get it started like transmission and alternators 

Got the keys in the cage ready for who you call the greatest 

Takin 'em down from the biggest bitches to smallest haters 

I'm 'bout to serve these niggaz, call 'em waiters 

Got my mind right, money right, ready for war 

And I got the C4, under my competitor's car 

These niggaz runnin 'round talkin 'bout they better than moi 

When I'm done all that's gon' be left bitch is ya head and ya bra 

Bitch I'm ahead of the pack, and I'm ahead of the game 

And I put yo' 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 sayin no names but I left the best on they back 

And they ain't sayin no names so I gotta say it myself 

I'm finger fuckin 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 will chop at yo' 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 wishin these niggaz good luck, go get a clover 

This Bun B, it's "B.E. 3," this shit is over 

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[Crooked I] 

SLAUGHTERHOUUUUUSE! (Whoo, Kiiiiiiiid!) 

[Joe Budden] 

Look at ya man look back at me, yeah I know, sickenin huh? 

Few got a Porsche with only two doors, 

need to upgrade cause you missin 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 lookin for me, I'm on your property if it's beef 

Not for robbery of ya piece, it's lobomomy with my peeps 

That comraderie 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 athiest 

While all of the frauds in rap is talkin 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 

Well put her in a wrestlin 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 lee-way, 

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 

Photos 

[Chorus: Royce Da 5'9"] 

Who you said was dope again? 

Ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us 

Who you said was hot again? 

Ay ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us 

Who you say could spit again? 

Ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us 

Who you say was dope again? 

Ay ay, it ain't nobody fuckin with us, nobody fuckin with us 

[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 ya destiny cause you a pessimistic loser 

Mess with me and I'll definitely shoot ya 

I'ma do's ya like I'm reppin the Yakuza 

Die hard like I'm sexin with Medusa, do somethin nigga 

Born thuggin, I don't fuck with the cock 

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 datin Erykah Badu 

Pair of Ferragamo shoes, I will stomp you 

I'm fucked up, like the relationship between Farrakhan and Jews 

I'm spankin this instrumental, like a wrinkly old bitch 

I'm whippin 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 

Gettin younger and fresher, puttin 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 Smart car 

Distinguished alkie, 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 

Po' vodka, we gon' bottle pop in the calm breeze 

No copper can stop a COB star - I'm a giant 

Dumpin 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 

Batter pocket syndrome, the money we gon' abuse it 

Still gettin 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 

[Chorus]