Hammer Dance

[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 the 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]