| Portable DATs, Sony headphones
|
| El Dorado’s, thousand dollar bottles, get blown
|
| Dippin' at Willie’s, Millie Jackson chicks
|
| Dusted out Blondie, slide me, we wrote the bowl, we take the magnets
|
| Man handling the mics, wool scarves, Evil Knievel bikes
|
| I like eggs in my rice, circus money, read the Staten Island funnies
|
| Eighty seven, Shallah rock, lotto’s and the gumby
|
| Tri-boro, fly negro, rap for Glaciers
|
| Do it for cee-lo games, chasers
|
| Battle for bitches, million dollar cribs
|
| Grandfather gamble those wit ribs
|
| Yes he did, life is wonderful, fly living rooms
|
| Brass brooms, catch me in the city of wasps
|
| Dusted out with Doc Doom, slide you in
|
| Thirty six to the hip, you need Neo
|
| Sock it to me G.O., the block we spot V. O
|
| Live at the handball session, white Wimbledon’s
|
| Send them, my throat is the top session for men
|
| Rap graduate, seen through the needles that was used by great
|
| Fuck around and get rocked for three notes
|
| And fuck your bitch ass alligators
|
| When I see you on stage, throw out the gauge
|
| My man’s dough made it ---
|
| Real nillaz do real things
|
| Gold me’dal with the real bling
|
| Ghetto child with the real sling
|
| Throw the blaow, with the real aim
|
| Hold it down for your nillaz, keep it real man
|
| Lean back one time as you feel the liquor
|
| Light a match, one time, inhale the ciga'
|
| Blow the mack one time, when you kill a nigga
|
| Real always gonna recognize real, my nilla
|
| Real nillaz do real things
|
| Gold me’dal with the real bling
|
| Ghetto child with the real sling
|
| Throw the blaow, with the real aim
|
| Hold it down for your nillaz, keep it real man
|
| Lean back one time as you feel the liquor
|
| Light a match, one time, inhale the ciga'
|
| Blow the mack one time, when you kill a nigga
|
| Real always gonna recognize real, my nilla
|
| I hold it down with vets, make threats and take like chess
|
| Blow cess to sets, break life sweats
|
| Rep from the home of chrome, in eight flight steps
|
| Town houses, white grams, brown ounces
|
| After school drug deal courses, pound counslers
|
| Round thousands, rubberband, black accountants
|
| We them hood prowlers, live pushers
|
| Try to hook the stripper, before they wipin' out they eye boogers
|
| Stampede, nailed him, Sonny, Bronx Tale
|
| Them locked the doors, he’s home, now you can’t leave
|
| OD’ing in the Kennedy suite
|
| Too hot to think, move for my enemy streets
|
| I don’t sleep cause the drama might catch you on the beauty nap
|
| It’s doobie rap, feds want you with a boobie trap
|
| Real nillaz do real things
|
| Gold me’dal with the real bling
|
| Ghetto child with the real sling
|
| Throw the blaow, with the real aim
|
| Hold it down for your nillaz, keep it real man
|
| Lean back one time as you feel the liquor
|
| Light a match, one time, inhale the ciga'
|
| Blow the mack one time, when you kill a nigga
|
| Real always gonna recognize real, my nilla
|
| «Ooh I’m too blind I see the light»
|
| «A fool can’t see the light»
|
| «A fool can’t see the light»
|
| «But a fool a fool can’t see the light»
|
| «Ooh I’m too blind I see the light»
|
| «Ooh I’m too blind I see the light»
|
| «But a fool a fool can’t see the light»
|
| «A fool can’t see the light»
|
| Aiyo, elephant guns, mad ounces
|
| Colorful whips, slapped up bouncers
|
| Vouche, crawling like a unit
|
| Fly fragrance, faceless, rarely out of spaceships
|
| Many fakes got lynched, see all up on the graphic
|
| Taylor made mortals, leanin' on suede walls, leather’s on
|
| Ballers, maybe Benz lensers, sprayin' out of sixes
|
| Christmas money, vicious consolidated drama rip bitches
|
| The rich version of back, side scraper paper
|
| Wu belt makers, show & prove that all my shit match
|
| Tri-colored diamond, foreign color five, all kinds of iron
|
| Swiss cheese, yo, big boy, we giants
|
| Aiyo, my niggas get dramatic
|
| Pump shots, nine Glocks, semi-automatic
|
| Blat, take that, from this lyrical fanatic
|
| We can go to war, or just peep the diplomatic
|
| For paper, I’m an addict
|
| Aiyo, my niggas get dramatic
|
| Pump shots, nine Glocks, semi-automatic
|
| Blat, take that, from this lyrical fanatic
|
| We can go to war, or just peep the diplomatic
|
| For paper, I’m an addict
|
| Real nillaz do real things
|
| Gold me’dal with the real bling
|
| Ghetto child with the real sling
|
| Throw the blaow, with the real aim
|
| Hold it down for your nillaz, keep it real man
|
| Lean back one time as you feel the liquor
|
| Light a match, one time, inhale the ciga'
|
| Blow the mack one time, when you kill a nigga
|
| Real always gonna recognize real, my nilla |