Git Up D12

[Verse 1: Eminem]
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one
Ready or not here we come, here comes trouble in the club
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, pistols big as M-16s
How the fuck we sneak in with this many heaters in our jeans?
Nina, two ninas, a piece, they don't even see us
Some shit pops off, we squeeze each one
They're gonna think it's machine guns
Vandals-vo-vandals, bandanas and old flannels
Hands around our Colt handles, hold them like Roman candles
So ban us, go ban us, banana-fanna-fo-fannas
Who come back all bananas, banana clips loaded
Managers, bouncers, and the club owners
The motherfuckers don't want us to come up, bum rush in the club
And run up in it with a bunch of motherfuckers from Runyon
Steady popping them onions
Ready, set to go nut up, prepare to tear the whole club up
Fixing to get into some shit, just itching to choke someone up
You know we finna loc'n when we mix coke with coconut rum up
So, yeah, yeah, ho, what up? See my people posted up
See you talk that ho shit now, when you're down you won't get up
And can't sit up you're so slit up, the ambulance won't sew you up
They just throw you up in the trunk once they tag your big toe up
Heater-no-heater, automatic-no-matic
Mag or no mag, it don't matter if I have or don't have it
You never know when I'm packing so you just don't want no static
And open up a whole can of whoop ass
You don't wanna chance to risk it, no biscuit
Milli mac or mac milli
Will he, won't he, don't be silly, homie, you don't know me really
You're just gonna make yourself dizzy wonderin' what the dilly
Fuck it, let's just get busy D-Twizzy's back in the hizzy!