Real People

Is that, uhh... your profession or... your pleasure?

Both, I guess... to be paid to do what you love, ain't that the dream?

I guess so

Huh, oh you want more gunplay?

You wanna see me murder something broad day?

He'll lay down when he hear the sound

Click click, gun to the back of his head now

Down upon both knee

One two or three

Squeeze trigger, crowd scream

Witness in murdering

How dare you ever disrespect my family?

I rep mine to the last breath that's physically

Mine everlast my sons'll still blast

They born to be living out the legacy of me

That's how it gotta be

Still killing heads in the first round

Man down, God cipher divine, true and living sound

Bushwick, Bed-Stuy, Brownsville, E.N.Y

Crown Heights, Flatbush, Red Hook keep 'em shook

Respect my Brooklyn, always good looking

From the grounds where your life and jewels'll get tooken

From Brooklyn to L.A. and back to Queens

Real people do real things is the thing

And if you never violate family or principle

You won't get handled and dealt with, simple

They want that murder 16, I got that

Mean rap, Killa pristine

A dean of these homicide bangers for all of them gangsta

Real shit, body this and target the next one

I got my crosshair on every kick, snare

Every hi-hat, bassline should be scared

This is war literature, make me literally

Destroy niggas on and off the beat

Enough games, now let me get seriously

On my shit, on my gorilla grizzly, with these

Crowbars, flow hard like heavy blood loss

Spit lungies, yo Prodigy nasty God

M.K., M.V.P. will pass you off

To the reaper for makin them bullshit songs

Old pussy ass nigga, you soft, and shorty want it hard

And she want it all night long (Bitch!)

I got all of my game in the back seat of a Chevy

'Cause in Long Beach you just gotta pack heat and be ready

In the back street with the Desi heavy as Shaq feet

Niggas run like athletes at a track meet

Or your hats leakin, spaghetti (Skrrrt)

Ock chain in my 'Pac lane

Activist rapper, noble as Reggie I'm Doc Strange

Pull up at the Million Man March in a box Range

'Cause I want change but I got change, my block bangs

I'm still sippin dark Bacardi

I'm still darker than Marcus Garvey

I still start the party like a yardie

Bust shots, the cops wanna give me 25 with a kickstand

But I'd rather park the Harley

Walk in, Levi's creased up

Pair of mean Chucks blinged up like King Tut

Knowledge of self, I college myself, without a father to help

West Coast shit, Impalas and wealth, Killa

From Brooklyn to L.A. and back to Queens

Real people do real things is the thing

And if you never violate family or principle

You won't get handled and dealt with, simple