Party - Slaughterhouse

[Intro: Crooked I & (Royce Da 5'9")]
What the fuck you talking 'bout?
(You ain't in my lane, nigga)
This is Slaughterhouse
(Me and you ain't the same, nigga)

[Verse 1: Crooked I]
Why you think your bitch on my dick?
Cause I'm a paid nigga
Made nigga deep in her pussy like a grave digga
I'm so high that I can chill on the roof
Pop a Oxycontin pill in the booth, give 'em the truth
Tell the world them lyrical killers still on the loose
If I make the crowd bounce my nigga Eminem'll recoup
That's why the rhymes Crooked I spit is making a mosh pit
Fly shit, sicker than hospice, takin' 'em hostage
Yeah, we don't party like you niggas do
We don't party like them niggas do
4 a.m. 20 groupies on the tour bus
On a coke high, waitin' to fuck the 4 of us
Nah, we don't party like you niggas do
Nah, we don't party like you niggas do
Put some blue dolphins off in a rocket
I'm 'bout to blast off, now I'm feelin' proper
We don't party like you niggas do
We don't party like you niggas do

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]
Wadadadang wadadadadang (x2)


[Verse 2: Royce Da 5'9]
Fuck you nerds doing everything cause Jay Z done said it
Fuck you and your new urge to be a fake sneaker head
Fuck you and your ball game floor seats
If you just there with a broad, neither one of y'all ain't scorekeep
'Prolly thought LeBron was a cornerback
Heat game, wearing Grape 5's and a Hornets hat
Fuck you and your leather jerseys and hairy arms
Niggas bald then they get big headed like Barry Bonds
Fuck you and the crowd you perform in front of
Like you was born a stunna, your money reformed a runner
Your Instagram got pictures saying I heard he's rich
So you just fucked your first bad bitch at 36
That's what I call fake felt, never saw a weight scale
Shirt tucked in in front, showin' off your H belt
This one of them moments where your money ain't the issue
I can call you corny cause corny niggas get rich too
Still a sucker, corny niggas get rich too
We don't party like you niggas do

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]

[Verse 3: Joell Ortiz]
Man fuck you fuckboys, you boys fuckin' with the wrong one
Fuck your fake high, don't give a fuck if you're on one
Fuck that broad you're fuckin', that pussy prolly smell cray
Fuck, you ain't a G, who give a fuck what your belt say?
Fuck you and your section and your bottles and your sparklers
And your shades that look like night vision goggles, fuck you
Knock off, enough with all the narcotics you knock off
The hood jump off the only time you get your rocks off
Snap, in fact you never pop off, your block's soft
Man I'll knock everybody on your block's block off
You fake gat clapper, mad actor
I'm backwards, watch how this pump give you mad asthma
Put your punk story in it's last chapter
I fucked the pumps off a D but you a cat stacker
No party's like a house party, yeah
You know a shorty's sleepin' on that couch, prolly dead
That's what we get into, why even knock? You'll never get into
A house party, we don't party like you niggas do

[Hook: Royce Da 5'9"]

[Verse 4: Joe Budden]
I know a couple new niggas tried to start this
Lemme help you out dawg, trickin' is still trickin' regardless
We not in the same, you funny to us, I use mouth for my jeans, you need your money to fuck