[Lyric] Eminem Freestyles on Tim Westwood | 2010 (Eminem)

[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)