| Hey man, it’s real
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| Knowin that
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| Hey man, it’s real
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| Knowin that
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| Hey man, it’s real
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| Knowin that
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| Hey man, it’s real
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| Knowin that
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| I put you up nigga, don’t trip
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| You did your dirt for that mark
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| And he left you in the dark
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| Sky-divin' in a bullet-proof parachute
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| No remorse, left you hangin
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| Easy aimin, lock down shoot
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| The Glock sounds tootin
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| One minute til' I’m in it
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| Got a business, still they ass to death
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| And get my scrill up in the corner, none left
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| Shots out to my nigga in the pen.
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| Didn’t switch, didn’t act bitch
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| Try to stop a nigga from gettin rich
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| You could dig a ditch, but you won’t find shit
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| Left you in flames, kept the roach
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| You can smell the shit when I approach
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| I be off that stanky sack of indo-nesia
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| It’s a evidential
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| I leave you hungry, eat yo cheese up
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| Heard you was sweet, like a Almond Joy
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| And I know you heard of me
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| Cause I’m a West-Coast Bad Boy
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| And I’m a sick nigga, «Sicc made! |
| «It gets real as I pull the pin out this grenade!
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| «Body Parts"like the movie
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| Old school Uzi
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| Rip yo arms out from the elbows
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| Nigga I smell those green leaves
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| The six thieves
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| A twenty-sack of green weed is all I need
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| I make you bleed, I take yo cream
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| I know you got it from the «Ice Cream Man»
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| Before you make that transaction
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| I need the cash in my hand
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| And if you don’t, we can do the murder-man dance
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| Under any circumstance, I’m a have yo hands
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| Brotha Lynch, I’m a make you a deal you can’t refuse
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| My phone tapped
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| The new code for halfs and wholes is t-shirts and tennis-shoes
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| From the yay, I got the sneakers
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| Sixty-five for a shoe nigga, if you got the tweakers
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| Meet me down-south, New Orleans we bumpin
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| I get this bitch jumpin, you got the money
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| I got the g’s, flip the ki’s, and the o-z's
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| We could blow some weed
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| And talk about this shit smokin some trees
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| But watch yo back, keep yo handle bar cocked
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| Too many Federal Agents pretend to be hustlers, but really cops
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| Send it across the border, nigga like Taco Bell
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| Put it in a plane, a boat, UPS, nigga I could get it there
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| I’m surrounded by cocktails, I mean hoes in mini-skirts
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| Ain’t no free dick out here, it’s time to put in work
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| Put these hoes on a Greyhound, fool if it’s goin down
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| And make 'em bring it back, from my hood, to your town
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| And it’s all good, nigga it’s like wax
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| And we could slang these records like motherfuckin crack
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| And if they bumpin, we gotta keep 'em jumpin
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| Cause it’s all about the cheddar, the cheese, and the money
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| A criminal tatted front-to-back
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| Always 'bout my jack
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| Doin a dope-deal, forget to bring yo strap
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| Let it be fact, I blast first
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| I know no nigga that smart in a hearse
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| Who cursed, my dope and money life
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| A Eagle with blood stains in the scope
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| Be my wife, live yo life
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| Til' death do us part
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| Start my gangsta bounce
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| Thirty-six ounce, to a ki
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| Got this T-O-D in ya face
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| Now tell me the fuck else you got free
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| A thousand pounds of that skunk
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| Ready to jump, smokin everything I can, huh
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| Master P, and Brotha Lynch Hung
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| Let me serve some dick to these niggas with they tongues out
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| Eighty-five in the south
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| Twenty-four in the east
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| See my scrilla, blow like yeast
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| Cross my fingers, pull my wife
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| It’s hot tonight
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| A murder case, got away with a hundred g’s
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| And a couple of wild geese, headed west
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| Capiche?
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| A hundred clunkers waitin my arrival
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| Dirty… survival |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song It's Real , by - Brotha Lynch Hung. Song from the album The Appearances, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп