Let the hands fall to the floor
Allow these pupils to see organs
A telescopic view is almost arousing
No more holiness in denial
The trojan army is just a farce
Reality is two weeks in the waiting
I’m not sure we’re on the same page
Habitual weakness stains the past
Desire rolls over and waits for spring
I’m not sure we’re on the same page
Your eyes are lusting, my hands are tied
Your mind conditioned, my heart has changed
I’m not sure we’re on the same page
We haven’t lyrics of this song. Please, add
these lyrics for other users. Use “Correct”. Thanks to you.
Instrumental
Dre:
The motherfucking saga continues…
All of you who don’t believe in the real gangsta shit,
cause when it comes to the real niggaz,
it makes the shit they’re much harder to deal with.
Yeah, above the laws in this motherfucker,
like Mafia for life, down with the real niggaz 4 life.
Ha-ha, yo sweet-talk, tell ‘em what the fuck we’re here for…
Well I write ya, USE, Compton, Watts, The Wood,
all across the motherfucking USA.
They know I’m walking through the valley of real niggaz,
I should fear no man on the motherfucking planet, hit me one.
Cause I’ve been to the mountain top y’all,
and I have been seeing through the eyes of a real nigga.
Yo, what you think about the real niggaz 187?
Yo, they make some of the coooooolest shit I had never heard,
Yo, when we came, G, I almost gave it up,
to the ruthless motherfucking gangstas.
Fear no man…
…because you’re shit man yourself,
time to put the world at yourself man.
Me not seeing bobba-clot mobbing to see a pussy-clot run,
bob-bob-bob-bob-bob, keep Babylon on the run, see…
Ren:
The real niggaz is back, cause there’s to many bullshit records out,
niggaz beat it for what we put out.
But you don’t have to wait no longer,
because the new album is out and the shit is much stronger.
So many groups made three albums or more,
and their weak-ass shit is still sitting in the record-store.
They wonder why it never sold,
niggaz rapping since the seventies and still never went gold.
Our first record sold two million copies,
that’s because you other motherfuckers are sloppy.
You came out the streets and crossed over,
and after that your career is fucking over.
Because after that you’re not around,
so shut the fuck up, and witness the sound of some real niggaz.
Eazy:
Yeah, motherfucker.
keeping all you busters on the run in ninety-one, kick that shit Ren.
Ren:
Most niggaz can’t understand,
and never will if they ain’t part of the ruthless Mafia-clan.
Niggaz is dedicated to the streets,
with hyped fucking lyrics and a dope ass beat.
The songs will never come soft, because I come off,
so don’t get in my way or motherfucker you’ll be cut off.
And it’s something you can move your lips to,
to wrap around my dick and suck if it fits you.
And let me now if you wanna ride the D-I-C-K,
all day that’s with no play.
Cause ain’t no rap group out, that I know,
that makes me wanna listen to the radio.
All I hear is motherfuckers trying to make a comeback with lovesongs,
and that shit is whack.
And that’s why your ass ain’t around,
cause you don’t have the motherfucking sound of a real nigga.
Instrumental
[Big Daddy Kane]
Huh, huh, huh
Mister Cee, are you wit me, uhh
Mister Cee, are you wit me, DIG IT
Gangster or prankster, define yourself, huh
And put that rough talk on the shelf
You talk all that robbery shit, but it’s lame
You wouldn’t steal first base at a baseball game
Never sold drugs, you never was a thug
But you’re talking ying-yang like as if you’re in a gang
I mean for goodness sake
The only beef you ever had was a sirloin steak
You wanna question me and all the words I say
Well, you can bring the noise any fuckin day
I rock a rugged-a-ruff rhyme to besiege ya
And if I see you at a party, put up your dickbeaters
By time I get through wreckin your jaw
You be callin Patti LaBelle and Barry White hardcore
Why should I give up for gangster contrast
When I can rap about gettin some ass
To prove that I’m a gangster only brings me trouble
But the proof that I’m a lover * sound of a zipper *
It’s that easy but still you insist (yeah)
That I do this (what?)
We haven’t lyrics of this song. Please, add
these lyrics for other users. Use “Correct”. Thanks to you.
We haven’t lyrics of this song. Please, add
these lyrics for other users. Use “Correct”. Thanks to you.
Instrumental
[big daddy kane]
Huh, huh, huh
Mister cee, are you wit me, uhh
Mister cee, are you wit me, dig it
Gangster or prankster, define yourself, huh
And put that rough talk on the shelf
You talk all that robbery shit, but it’s lame
You wouldn’t steal first base at a baseball game
Never sold drugs, you never was a thug
But you’re talking ying-yang like as if you’re in a gang
I mean for goodness sake
The only beef you ever had was a sirloin steak
You wanna question me and all the words i say
Well, you can bring the noise any fuckin day
I rock a rugged-a-ruff rhyme to besiege ya
And if i see you at a party, put up your dickbeaters
By time i get through wreckin your jaw
You be callin patti labelle and barry white hardcore
Why should i give up for gangster contrast
When i can rap about gettin some ass
To prove that i’m a gangster only brings me trouble
But the proof that i’m a lover * sound of a zipper *
It’s that easy but still you insist (yeah)
That i do this (what?)
Instrumental
