Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song It's Real, artist - Brotha Lynch Hung. Album song The Appearances, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 18.01.2002
Record label: BlackMarket
Song language: English
It's Real |
| Hey man, it’s real |
| Knowin that |
| Hey man, it’s real |
| Knowin that |
| Hey man, it’s real |
| Knowin that |
| Hey man, it’s real |
| Knowin that |
| I put you up nigga, don’t trip |
| You did your dirt for that mark |
| And he left you in the dark |
| Sky-divin' in a bullet-proof parachute |
| No remorse, left you hangin |
| Easy aimin, lock down shoot |
| The Glock sounds tootin |
| One minute til' I’m in it |
| Got a business, still they ass to death |
| And get my scrill up in the corner, none left |
| Shots out to my nigga in the pen. |
| Didn’t switch, didn’t act bitch |
| Try to stop a nigga from gettin rich |
| You could dig a ditch, but you won’t find shit |
| Left you in flames, kept the roach |
| You can smell the shit when I approach |
| I be off that stanky sack of indo-nesia |
| It’s a evidential |
| I leave you hungry, eat yo cheese up |
| Heard you was sweet, like a Almond Joy |
| And I know you heard of me |
| Cause I’m a West-Coast Bad Boy |
| And I’m a sick nigga, «Sicc made! |
| «It gets real as I pull the pin out this grenade! |
| «Body Parts"like the movie |
| Old school Uzi |
| Rip yo arms out from the elbows |
| Nigga I smell those green leaves |
| The six thieves |
| A twenty-sack of green weed is all I need |
| I make you bleed, I take yo cream |
| I know you got it from the «Ice Cream Man» |
| Before you make that transaction |
| I need the cash in my hand |
| And if you don’t, we can do the murder-man dance |
| Under any circumstance, I’m a have yo hands |
| Brotha Lynch, I’m a make you a deal you can’t refuse |
| My phone tapped |
| The new code for halfs and wholes is t-shirts and tennis-shoes |
| From the yay, I got the sneakers |
| Sixty-five for a shoe nigga, if you got the tweakers |
| Meet me down-south, New Orleans we bumpin |
| I get this bitch jumpin, you got the money |
| I got the g’s, flip the ki’s, and the o-z's |
| We could blow some weed |
| And talk about this shit smokin some trees |
| But watch yo back, keep yo handle bar cocked |
| Too many Federal Agents pretend to be hustlers, but really cops |
| Send it across the border, nigga like Taco Bell |
| Put it in a plane, a boat, UPS, nigga I could get it there |
| I’m surrounded by cocktails, I mean hoes in mini-skirts |
| Ain’t no free dick out here, it’s time to put in work |
| Put these hoes on a Greyhound, fool if it’s goin down |
| And make 'em bring it back, from my hood, to your town |
| And it’s all good, nigga it’s like wax |
| And we could slang these records like motherfuckin crack |
| And if they bumpin, we gotta keep 'em jumpin |
| Cause it’s all about the cheddar, the cheese, and the money |
| A criminal tatted front-to-back |
| Always 'bout my jack |
| Doin a dope-deal, forget to bring yo strap |
| Let it be fact, I blast first |
| I know no nigga that smart in a hearse |
| Who cursed, my dope and money life |
| A Eagle with blood stains in the scope |
| Be my wife, live yo life |
| Til' death do us part |
| Start my gangsta bounce |
| Thirty-six ounce, to a ki |
| Got this T-O-D in ya face |
| Now tell me the fuck else you got free |
| A thousand pounds of that skunk |
| Ready to jump, smokin everything I can, huh |
| Master P, and Brotha Lynch Hung |
| Let me serve some dick to these niggas with they tongues out |
| Eighty-five in the south |
| Twenty-four in the east |
| See my scrilla, blow like yeast |
| Cross my fingers, pull my wife |
| It’s hot tonight |
| A murder case, got away with a hundred g’s |
| And a couple of wild geese, headed west |
| Capiche? |
| A hundred clunkers waitin my arrival |
| Dirty… survival |