| What’s up
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| King Tee’s in the muthafuckin house
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| Got my homeboy Young Floyd in the house
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| J-Ro's in the house
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| But yo
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| Now here’s somethin everybody can relate to
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| I know you hate to, but I feel great to
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| Be the man to shake you, awake you and make you
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| Stop sleepin, and I do what it takes to
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| Bring a screechin halt to the snoozin
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| First listen to the jam before you start choosin
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| And refusin, sayin you can’t hack it
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| You never even bothered to take it out the jacket
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| Put it on the turntable, have a listen
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| Then if it’s wack, start dissin
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| Now I understand why you’re dissin my cut
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| So I spit in my foot and stick my fist up your butt
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| Cause you have no business, really in this
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| And I have no time for that diss-diss
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| I shoot a rhyme at you like I’m shootin to kill
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| And you can do is ask yourself (can this be real?)
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| Now this song, I dedicate it to the sleepers
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| Nothing real hard, just a little teaser
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| For those who told those that the King Tee was done with
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| No, not quite, yo Pooh — pump it
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| Suckers don’t front, I know it’s me you admire
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| I take your girl, set her soul on fire
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| I use the mic like a gun and my rhymes like ammo
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| I go Tyson while others go Rambo
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| Pooh-puts are warned, break north while you can, bub
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| Give up rappin, join my fanclub
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| I’m the rap reverend, hip-hop evangelist
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| Yo, I can handle this, pass me the canabis
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| Pro rap artist, and my rhymes are kinda raunchy
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| Start with somethin smooth, end with somethin punchy
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| See, I can rock, funk, rock, reggae or salsa
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| Heavy metal or some soul, disco at the casa
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| Just to the point of a vinyl convention
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| Tee does the rappin, E does the mixin
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| So if you’re still sleepin, yo, that’s ill
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| But when you’re awake — what’s your question?
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| (Tell me, can this be real?)
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| Let me see if I can bust this one off
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| Right here
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| One take
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| As I resume with my rhymes, or should I say continue
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| You got the nerve to try to pretend you
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| Don’t like what I’m doin or sayin so far
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| But usually when I’m done you’re satisfied, of course
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| I don’t front or fake, don’t base or sniff
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| Don’t rob or steal or shoot dice and pimp
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| Cause I love to hang out with my posse and chill
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| You might think I’m a thug, so think what you will
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| I got a girl with a curl, and a homie named Sonny
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| Never smoked crack, cause the shit smelled funny
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| King Tee, my alter ego, there’s not to be a sequel
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| Suckers try to diss me when I entertain the people
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| Hey, I’m a murderer, your girl, I’m servin her
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| You feel like beefin — hah, the nerve of ya
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| I hit you so hard, it make your mother feel dizzy
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| Back up, punk, the King came to get busy
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| (Tell me, can this be real?) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Can This Be Real , by - King Tee. Song from the album At Your Own Risk, in the genre Поп