It's Real Lyrics - The Appearances - Book 1 - Brotha Lynch Hung

Hey man, it's real 

Knowin that 

Hey man, it's real 

Knowin that 

Hey man, it's real 

Knowin that 

Hey man, it's real 

Knowin that 

(1, Brotha Lynch Hung) 

I put you up nigga, don't trip 

You did your dirt for that mark 

And he left you in the dark 

Sky-divin' in a bullet-proof parachute 

No remorse, left you hangin 

Easy aimin, lock down shoot 

The Glock sounds tootin 

One minute til' I'm in it 

Got a business, still they ass to death 

And get my scrill up in the corner, none left 

Shots out to my nigga in the pen 

Didn't switch, didn't act bitch 

Try to stop a nigga from gettin rich 

You could dig a ditch, but you won't find shit 

Left you in flames, kept the roach 

You can smell the shit when I approach 

I be off that stanky sack of indo-nesia 

It's a evidential 

I leave you hungry, eat yo cheese up 

Heard you was sweet, like a Almond Joy 

And I know you heard of me 

Cause I'm a West-Coast Bad Boy 

And I'm a sick nigga, "Sicc made!" 

It gets real as I pull the pin out this grenade! 

"Body Parts" like the movie 

Old school Uzi 

Rip yo arms out from the elbows 

Nigga I smell those green leaves 

The six thieves 

A twenty-sack of green weed is all I need 

I make you bleed, I take yo cream 

I know you got it from the "Ice Cream Man" 

Before you make that transaction 

I need the cash in my hand 

And if you don't, we can do the murder-man dance 

Under any circumstance, I'ma have yo hands 

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(2, Master P) 

Brotha Lynch, I'ma make you a deal you can't refuse 

My phone tapped 

The new code for halfs and wholes is t-shirts and tennis-shoes 

From the yay, I got the sneakers 

Sixty-five for a shoe nigga, if you got the tweakers 

Meet me down-south, New Orleans we bumpin 

I get this bitch jumpin, you got the money 

I got the g's, flip the ki's, and the o-z's 

We could blow some weed 

And talk about this shit smokin some trees 

But watch yo back, keep yo handle bar cocked 

Too many Federal Agents pretend to be hustlers, but really cops 

Send it across the border, nigga like Taco Bell 

Put it in a plane, a boat, UPS, nigga I could get it there 

I'm surrounded by cocktails, I mean hoes in mini-skirts 

Ain't no free dick out here, it's time to put in work 

Put these hoes on a Greyhound, fool if it's goin down 

And make 'em bring it back, from my hood, to your town 

And it's all good, nigga it's like wax 

And we could slang these records like motherfuckin crack 

And if they bumpin, we gotta keep 'em jumpin 

Cause it's all about the cheddar, the cheese, and the money 

Photos 

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(3, Mr. Serv-On) 

A criminal tatted front-to-back 

Always 'bout my jack 

Doin a dope-deal, forget to bring yo strap 

Let it be fact, I blast first 

I know no nigga that smart in a hearse 

Who cursed, my dope and money life 

A Eagle with blood stains in the scope 

Be my wife, live yo life 

Til' death do us part 

Start my gangsta bounce 

Thirty-six ounce, to a ki 

Got this T-O-D in ya face 

Now tell me the fuck else you got free 

A thousand pounds of that skunk 

Ready to jump, smokin everything I can, huh 

Master P, and Brotha Lynch Hung 

Let me serve some dick to these niggas with they tongues out 

Eighty-five in the south 

Twenty-four in the east 

See my scrilla, blow like yeast 

Cross my fingers, pull my wife 

It's hot tonight 

A murder case, got away with a hundred g's 

And a couple of wild geese, headed west 

Capiche? 

A hundred clunkers waitin my arrival 

Dirty... survival 

(, to fade)