The Real Lyrics

Hurry up, let's go, take all his riches
That's what I used to learn from these older misses
You gotta, stop, cock and roll with mister
Flip, flop, my robes from dub to misses
Only run with real dudes, with the guns for sticking
Big dicks for sticking, fat tongues for licking
The type you like, she can have all my riches
Pretty Girl, you thorough, cancel all my business
Like to stick my pretty two's, but known to get stitches
Since a young girl, I've been grown up figures
Little older now, and I'm getting grandfather figures
More grands, than the grams, my poppa was sniffing
Laid up, slumped up, is how we leaving these niggas
Turned up, cooked up, like turnips in momma's kitchen
Burned up, like niggas banging dirty bitches
There's many ways, with a kiss, blazing niggas

[Chorus x2: P.G. (Streets)]
Real recognize real, we known to spill
(Get back, flip tracks, been known to peel)
With hoes and fake niggas like Kodak film
(Kill tracks, murk beats, and we'll take your deal)

It's real, kid, I'm that chick
Time to recognize who she runs with
Spit, bars, I'm so sweet
Gutter langer by the name of Streets
Son get soaked when by myself
Heavyweight bitch, I hold the belts
I, rip tracks, yes, she's hot
I, run them Streets, I run blocks
I, keep my heat, don't f**k with cops, no
Tell Diddy, I won't stop, no
Time to cop, so step your game up
The reason why these fellas open
From rags to roaches, we've been had though
Been smoked that 'dro, beef for a ho
Holla, come on now, bitch, I know my work
Who you talking to bitch, yo, I sold myself

[Chorus x2]

Been enemy of the state since I was born
Trying to make some moves like Farrakhan
Trying to see the world before I'm gone
Spitting over Buddha's beats in Brooklyn

Yo, I'm caging niggas, I'm flaming niggas
Like drag queens in parades on Thanksgiving, niggas
Uh, it's real with no deal, I'm hiding man for niggas
Like mixtapes in the hood, over instrumentals

Why, yo, we move in silence
Nowhere, to run, nowhere to hide
Bitch, keep that thing, by my sidekick
You jack and laid off to bust a nut

Uh, feel it in your guts, you know what's up, and what's what
Get bucked, fired up, light it up, it's a must
Cause, we be the chicks, niggas cannot touch
Chicken mimic how we spit, stop riding us

[Chorus x4]

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Record Label(s): 2008 Chambermusik Records
Official lyrics by

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