| Song | Running Game on Real |
| Artist | Gravediggaz |
| Album | Nightmare in A-Minor |
| 作词 : Berkeley, Hamilton | |
| Yo, it's that Brooklyn shit! | |
| Y'all niggas ready? NAAAAAAAH! | |
| Y'all ready? YEEEAH! | |
| Yo, oh shit | |
| [Chorus: Frukwan] | |
| Runnin game on bail | |
| A nigga might find it hard walkin alone in a graveyard | |
| Runnin game on bail | |
| And if ya can't compete I'll leave ya 6 Feet Deep, nigga! | |
| [Frukwan] | |
| Yo, I be the Pied Piper, enlightener, holy cipher | |
| Watch the God strike like a viper | |
| Potential energy pumps the mainstream | |
| Warn a nigga, crazy enough to return the dust | |
| My chrome crushed the image, considered it a mess | |
| Jump the C.O., bust the captain, and hop the fence | |
| Did manuveur like a cougar, usin night vision | |
| Interrogate intruders, rest, puff my Buddha | |
| The grand child, father of mad style | |
| Battle Gods on file, exiled since I lost the trial | |
| Behold, control niggas like croaks, insert dats | |
| Death blow, aim and hit straight to the heart | |
| It's a strong wind, niggas is thin as tin strips | |
| Immeasureable wealth, campaignin that wack shit | |
| The barriers ready, engaged lock finder | |
| Fox 1, launch the sidewinder | |
| Gothic hip-hop break, I blast microscopic bars | |
| Til it ends communication, only seen through Allah | |
| God body, search Darth Khadafi, killa of Nazis | |
| Take heads like Jake DiViassi | |
| Clips of snake venom, toos rock, instructor, destruct | |
| Just burnt from lyrical reflux | |
| Tramp through decisions, battlin and collisions | |
| High speed, still a nigga tryin to breathe, what nigga? | |
| [Chorus x4] | |
| [Poetic] | |
| I come with the Killa Arm-Leg-a-Leg-a-Arm-Head | |
| Ready with the bomb threat, fuck all of the calm shit | |
| Waitin til the bomb hits, make a nigga vomit | |
| Cuz he gave it all when preparin to respond wit | |
| My correspondece, only young foes fall as soldiers in the Cold War | |
| Powered by solar | |
| Always in the trench, intense until I dent | |
| The armour of the Devil brigade, slugs are spent | |
| And dark rebels invade your tent, with the intent | |
| To leave your body bent, I let the shotty vent | |
| To lay your chest, penetrate your vest | |
| Look for your family traits, as you defecate | |
| You're dyin in the stench, nothin can prevent | |
| A violent takeover, the modern J. Hova | |
| Cannot be tempted by no type payola | |
| Colder than the Polar, your bling-bling is over | |
| Fuck all you fake Costra Nostras | |
| Grym is a real street soldier, put you in a deep coma | |
| Your weak streak is over, finito | |
| I sting like 10 million mosquitoes with hypodermic needles | |
| [Chorus x4] |
| zuò cí : Berkeley, Hamilton | |
| Yo, it' s that Brooklyn shit! | |
| Y' all niggas ready? NAAAAAAAH! | |
| Y' all ready? YEEEAH! | |
| Yo, oh shit | |
| Chorus: Frukwan | |
| Runnin game on bail | |
| A nigga might find it hard walkin alone in a graveyard | |
| Runnin game on bail | |
| And if ya can' t compete I' ll leave ya 6 Feet Deep, nigga! | |
| Frukwan | |
| Yo, I be the Pied Piper, enlightener, holy cipher | |
| Watch the God strike like a viper | |
| Potential energy pumps the mainstream | |
| Warn a nigga, crazy enough to return the dust | |
| My chrome crushed the image, considered it a mess | |
| Jump the C. O., bust the captain, and hop the fence | |
| Did manuveur like a cougar, usin night vision | |
| Interrogate intruders, rest, puff my Buddha | |
| The grand child, father of mad style | |
| Battle Gods on file, exiled since I lost the trial | |
| Behold, control niggas like croaks, insert dats | |
| Death blow, aim and hit straight to the heart | |
| It' s a strong wind, niggas is thin as tin strips | |
| Immeasureable wealth, campaignin that wack shit | |
| The barriers ready, engaged lock finder | |
| Fox 1, launch the sidewinder | |
| Gothic hiphop break, I blast microscopic bars | |
| Til it ends communication, only seen through Allah | |
| God body, search Darth Khadafi, killa of Nazis | |
| Take heads like Jake DiViassi | |
| Clips of snake venom, toos rock, instructor, destruct | |
| Just burnt from lyrical reflux | |
| Tramp through decisions, battlin and collisions | |
| High speed, still a nigga tryin to breathe, what nigga? | |
| Chorus x4 | |
| Poetic | |
| I come with the Killa ArmLegaLegaArmHead | |
| Ready with the bomb threat, fuck all of the calm shit | |
| Waitin til the bomb hits, make a nigga vomit | |
| Cuz he gave it all when preparin to respond wit | |
| My correspondece, only young foes fall as soldiers in the Cold War | |
| Powered by solar | |
| Always in the trench, intense until I dent | |
| The armour of the Devil brigade, slugs are spent | |
| And dark rebels invade your tent, with the intent | |
| To leave your body bent, I let the shotty vent | |
| To lay your chest, penetrate your vest | |
| Look for your family traits, as you defecate | |
| You' re dyin in the stench, nothin can prevent | |
| A violent takeover, the modern J. Hova | |
| Cannot be tempted by no type payola | |
| Colder than the Polar, your blingbling is over | |
| Fuck all you fake Costra Nostras | |
| Grym is a real street soldier, put you in a deep coma | |
| Your weak streak is over, finito | |
| I sting like 10 million mosquitoes with hypodermic needles | |
| Chorus x4 |