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作曲 : Marshall Mathers/Ray Fraser |
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作词 : Marshall Mathers |
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You sound like a *****, ***** |
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Shut the **** up! |
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When your fans become your haters |
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You done? |
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******' beard's weird |
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All right |
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You yellin' at the mic, you weird beard |
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We doin' this once |
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You yellin' at the mic, your beard's weird |
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Why you yellin' at the mic? (Illa) |
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Rihanna just hit me on the text |
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Last night I left hickeys on her neck |
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Wait, you just dissed me? I'm perplexed |
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Insult me in a line, compliment me on the next |
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Damn, I'm really sorry you want me to have a heart attack |
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Was watchin' 8 Mile on my NordicTrack |
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Realized I forgot to call you back |
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Here's that autograph for your daughter, |
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I wrote it on a Starter cap |
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Stan, Stan, son |
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Listen, man, Dad isn't mad |
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But how you gonna name yourself after a damn gun |
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And have a man-bun? |
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The giant's woke, eyes open, undeniable |
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Supplyin' smoke, got the fire stoked |
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Say you got me in a scope, but you grazed me |
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I say one call to Interscope and you're Swayze |
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Your reply got the crowd yelling, "Woo!" |
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So before you die let's see who can out-petty who |
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With your corny lines ("Slim, you're old")—ow, Kelly, ooh |
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But I'm 45 and I'm still outselling you |
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By 29, I had three albums that had blew |
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Now let's talk about somethin' I don't really do |
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Go in someone's daughter's mouth stealin' food |
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But you're a ******' mole hill |
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Now I'ma make a mountain out of you, woo! |
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Ho, chill, actin' like you put the chrome barrel |
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To my bone marrow |
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Gunner? *****, you ain't a bow and arrow |
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Say you'll run up on me like a phone bill, |
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Sprayin' lead (brrt) |
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Playin' dead, |
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That's the only time you hold still (hold up) |
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Are you eating cereal or oatmeal? |
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What the ****'s in the bowl, milk? |
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Wheaties or Cheerios? |
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'Cause I'm takin' a **** in 'em, |
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Kelly, I need reading material |
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Dictionary |
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"Yo, Slim, your last four albums sucked |
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Go back to Recovery," oh shoot, |
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That was three albums ago |
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What do you know? Oops |
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Know your facts before you come at me, lil' goof |
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Luxury, oh, you broke, *****? |
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Yeah, I had enough money in '02 |
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To burn it in front of you, ho |
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Younger me? No, you're the wack me, |
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It's funny but so true |
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I'd rather be 80-year-old me than 20-year-old you |
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'Til I'm hitting old age |
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Still can fill a whole page with a 10-year-old's rage |
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Got more fans than you in your own city, |
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Lil' kiddy, go play |
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Feel like I'm babysitting Lil Tay |
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Got the Diddy okay so you spent your whole day |
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Shootin' a video just to ******' dig your own grave |
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Got you at your own wake, I'm the billy goat |
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You ain't never made a list next to no Biggie, no Jay |
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Next to Taylor Swift and that Iggy ho, |
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You about to really blow |
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Kelly, they'll be putting your name |
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Next to Ja, next to Benzino—die, ************! |
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Like the last ************ sayin' Hailie in vain |
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Alien brain, you Satanist (yeah) |
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My biggest flops are your greatest hits |
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The game's mine again |
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And ain't nothin' changed but the locks |
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So before I slay this ***** I, mwah, give Jade a kiss |
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Gotta wake up Labor Day to this (the ****?) |
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Bein' rich-shamed by some prick |
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Usin' my name for clickbait |
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In a state of bliss 'cause I said his goddamn name |
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Now I gotta cock back, aim |
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Yeah, *****, pop Champagne to this! (pop) |
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It's your moment |
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This is it, as big as you're gonna get, so enjoy it |
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Had to give you a career to destroy it |
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Lethal injection |
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Go to sleep six feet deep, |
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I'll give you a B for the effort |
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But if I was three-foot-eleven |
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You'd look up to me, and for the record |
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You would suck a **** to ******' be me for a second |
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Lick a ballsack to get on my channel |
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Give your life to be as solidified |
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This ***********' **** is like Rambo |
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When he's out of bullets |
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So what good is a ******' machine gun |
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When it's out of ammo? |
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Had enough of this tatted-up mumble rapper |
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How the **** can him and I battle? |
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He'll have to **** Kim in my flannel |
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I'll give him my sandals |
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'Cause he knows long as I'm Shady, |
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He's gon' have to live in my shadow |
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Exhausting, letting off on my offspring |
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Like a gun barrel, *****, get off me! |
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You dance around it like a sombrero, we can all see |
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You're ******' salty |
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'Cause Young Gerald's balls-deep inside of Halsey |
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Your red sweater, your black leather |
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You dress better, I rap better |
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That a death threat or a love letter? |
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Little white toothpick |
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Thinks it's over a pic, I just don't like you, prick |
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Thanks for dissing me |
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Now I had an excuse on the mic to write "Not Alike" |
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But really, I don't care who's in the right |
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But you're losin' the fight you picked |
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Who else want it, Kells? |
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Attempt fails, Budden, L's |
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******' nails in these coffins as soft as Cottonelle |
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Killshot, I will not fail, I'm with the Doc still |
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But this idiot's boss pops pills |
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And tells him he's got skills |
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But, Kells, |
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The day you put out a hit's the day Diddy admits |
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That he put the hit out that got Pac kill, ah! |
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I'm sick of you bein' wack |
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And still usin' that ***********' Auto-Tune |
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So let's talk about it (let's talk about it) |
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I'm sick of your mumble rap mouth |
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Need to get the cock up out it |
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Before we can even talk about it (talk about it) |
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I'm sick of your blonde hair and earrings |
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Just 'cause you look in the mirror and think |
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That you're Marshall Mathers (Marshall Mathers) |
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Don't mean you are, and you're not about it |
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So just leave my **** in your mouth |
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And keep my daughter out it |
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You ******'… oh |
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And I'm just playin', Diddy |
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You know I love you |
