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Hammer Dance (Behind The Scenes)

[Verse 1: Joell Ortiz]
My real name, my rap shit
No made up nigga, Im 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
Im no shooter, but my shootersll have your brain exposed
But Ill shoot five in a second, homie, and break your nose
Talking past, Im 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 Im looking left and right for the niggas with the badge
My moms 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"]
Im 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 were doing the hammer dance
Two steppin with my weapon on me
You good? Im just checking, homie
Fam-a-lam, you dont 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
Im for real, how are you?
Got street power, from the Watts Towers to Howard U
How would you become me? I dont do what you cowards do
Flip a thousand pounds of that sour dies in a hour, dude
Im out my muhfuckin mind
Fuck a punchline, salute my muhfuckin grind
Ditching feds on the regular, theyre trying to catch a predator
Not the Chris Hansen type, but the Danny Glover kind
Im a killer, everybody know I body your audio
When a shotty blow, say goodbye to your barrio, you maricon
You dont think that Im about this
Ice grill, nigga, put your money where your mouth is
[Verse 3: Joe Budden]
My real name, my rap shit
Fuck with Chase, but the real bank is the mattress
Money aint 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 Im in the same taxi as the bone collector
Yall rappin bout models, I get hounded by em
Not a killer at all, Im just surrounded by em
Just a real nigga, straight from my mothers stomach
Aint 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 its not a possibility
On my Jers bullshit, never mind me
But if its ever problems, niggas know where to find me

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