[Intro: Mr Porter]

Slammer Jammer

Yeah, turn it up

Alchemist

Uh, uh, uh

Aight

Yeah, it's on to me first?

I'll do the first verse

Ladies and gentlemen, I wanna rap in on the turntables

Aight, look

[Verse 1: Mr. Porter]

Welcome to the ill world of Mr. P-O

Ay, 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 (Woo!)

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 damn back

Man, it's Ralph Lauren, this ain't no damn Chaps (Haha)

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- pfft

I think I threw up in my mouth a bit

I'm sick

[Verse 2: Royce da 5'9"]

Niggas 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'll have him layin' in the street, and

Bleedin', butt-naked wit' a

Bullet in his motherfuckin' head like Erykah Badu

I find irony in bein' in a place

Where I'm wearin' Gucci, mane, gettin' whiteboy wasted

I tell a nigga: break bread or take lead

I'm tryna 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 emcee 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"

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

[Interlude: Eminem]

Yeah

Yo, yo

*clears throat*

Aight

[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 (Woo!)

Satan's disciple wit' a sniper rifle and a knife

And a white diaper, liable to shit 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 (Woo!)

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 and he's still insane

Why's there bloodstains on his carpet, mane?

There's some crazy shit goin' on in Shady's apartment again, ooh!

[Interlude: Mr. Porter]

Okay, I guess it's back to me

Aight, look (C'mon)

[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 shit, 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

Bitch, 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 dick and raw sack

The potbrood of science to return a raw rap

I'm the best, mane; Eli Porter stance

[Interlude: Royce da 5'9"]

(Alchemist) Alchemist

Yeah, yeah-yeah

[Verse 5: Royce da 5'9"]

Y'all bitches 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 fuck 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' nigga, 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

[Interlude: Eminem]

Uh (Ouch)

Yo, yeah'

Yeah, can you turn it up a little bit?

[Verse 6: Eminem]

Newsflash, I'm still trash

Them pills shoulda killed my ass (Alchemist)

But they didn't; they just made me stronger

It's like they rebuilt my ass

Like the Six Million Dollar Man after the crash

It's Aftermath, bitch! And my milk glass is still half-empty

Yeah, tempt me, Hell 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

Shit, I done made a verse, said some foul shit

Tryna go back fix it, fucked 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, fuck yeah! What a dysfunctional pair!

So stop actin' like a punk, get a pair!

Take a pill and fall the fuck out, spill your lunch in the chair!

[Interlude: Mr. Porter]

Aight, round three

Aight, is it, is it

Okay, aight

Uh-uh, uh-uh

Uh-uh, uh-uh

[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 crap

I am so much of a star, bitch

That I can fart and piss on the red carpet

Look, my bank account's retarded

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 carcass

And red M&Ms chartered from Charlotte

Look, and if you try to act dumb and start shit

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 bitches, 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

[Interlude: Royce da 5'9"]

Mic check one-two, one-two

Okay-okay-okay, yeah-yeah

Mic check one-two

Slaughterhouse, Alchemist

Check it, check it

[Verse 8: Royce da 5'9"]

Now, if your attitude determines your latitude

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 must've 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 shit

Where the mayor went to jail

For bein' a player right after Proof split

Levels the head of competitors, 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 niggie

I'm more hooder than black Dickies

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

[Interlude: Eminem]

Uh, yo

[Verse 9: Eminem]

I'll do a hundred-yard dash just to slash Kim Kardash'

In the ass with a shard of glass from Nick Hogan's car crash

You may look like the passenger for that, don't be a smartass

Yeah, laugh while you sit there thinkin' that the hard part passed

You ain't seen pain 'til Leatherface flips mane

I'll cut your fuckin' balls off, homie, my saw's off the chain

I chopped the bitch in half with it, sawed off her legs

And the top half of the torso fuckin' crawled off insane

I ain't seen shit like that since I went to Mike Jack's

Took the Elephant Man's skull, fucked it, and put it right back

Handed my dick to Bubbles while he sucked it and licked my nut sack

Gave him a reach-around while I fucked him right in his butt crack

Nah, I ain't takin' it back, faggot, fuck that!

I give a fuck about nothin', so here's where you fucked up at

Don't go touchin' that can, man you don't wanna open up that

Wait a min, ah, shit… Alchemist, cut that!

[Outro: Tim Westwood]

Damn, that was real hip-hop, kid streetcorner [?] in the neck hip-hop

Thanks a lot, guys

(No doubt)