real talk (123)

Lyrics

, on them streets, you better keep your hand on them heats, and live what you sayin' on them beats, real talk. they ain't walkin' the walk, they just talkin' the talk, some people look at me as the real talk of new york, i ain't these like these niggaz who be feinin' to front, like they the first to ever put green in a blunt, look i don't be meaning to stunt, but i zip down like jeans in the front, in somethin' that you seen and you want, but otherwise i'm cool wit' it, they say only the ones who never had gon' get and act a fool wit' it, everybodys' gangsta through the promotion, even if they raised in a house wit' a view of the ocean, the bangers is growin' upset, cuz' ya' ass is on t.v. throwin' up sets, and you know you ain't like that, but you'll say that you is, go and rent a bunch a shit and and then say that its his, you ain't a pimp or you wouldn't go to dinner wit' groupies, ain't a baller cuz' you wouldn't put spinners on hoopties, 1-2-3; you don't really wanna fuck wit me, get in the way you could get yourself shot, fuck the cops, you on my block, fuckin' wit a gangsta nigga, how can niggaz say they be on the other side of the seas', where the steering wheels are on the other side of the v's, and the home look like the spot on the other side of the c's, when they ain't never been on the other side of the p's, i ca' see through em', ya tents are too light, every sentence you write is far from the truth, you wanna be that nigga you are in the booth, but you ain't got the heart, the scars, or the proof, and now you flash ya' shirt tag in our grill, but i'm hearin' you was a dirtbag before the deal, you walk around talkin' how every dime sucked, when they don't even speak to you, nevermind fucked you, ya' hood sayin' don't come back, step foot in here, and they gon' put you where you won't come back, dog, how the fuck you gon' have keys in ya' house, when ya' moms' won't even give you keys to the house loser, nigga you in the mirror, checkin' what your make ups' lookin' like, tryina fool the world wit' a jacob look-a-like, jiving like you hold stacks, but ya' car is ten years old homie, ya' drivin' in a throwback, they gon' strip you, have you runnin' naked next, without security you like unprotected sex, you ain't never gon' finger a trigger, all you do is look in the mugshot book and finger a nigga, i real recognize real, you'd be a john doe, you livin' in a closet and call it a condo, i don't member you as a slinger that was on the bench, just a little scrub ass ringer in the tournaments, now they try to blame the fall of hip hop on fans, nah, i think its these hip hop con mans, studio gangstas is played out now, this ain't the eighties, battle raps'll get you layed out, fucka, 1-2-3; and any time that you on them streets, you better keep your hand on them heats, and live what you sayin' on them beats, real talk, real talk, it's really really really really real talk, it's really really really really real talk, it's really really really really real talk, it's really really really really real talk