Return Of The Real Lyrics
| Song | Return Of The Real |
| Artist | Ice T |
| Album | Ice T VI: Return Of The Real |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Yo, what's up with all these niggas | |
| On these mutha****in' records talkin' all this bullshit | |
| I ain't tryin' to hear that shit, man | |
| These bitches ain't players, man | |
| Peace to my street niggas movin' that weight | |
| Much love to my comrades who's out in upstate | |
| Mad connections from the bottom to the top of the game | |
| Street fame, | |
| I got much that's in touch with my name | |
| Got a overload of guns to unload on a lame nigga trippin' | |
| Wake up my posse, interrup' the | |
| Rémy sippin' | |
| Four in your back and keep bailin' | |
| Listen to the | |
| HK wailin' and your vital signs failin' | |
| Everyone that ever met me knows | |
| I work bitches like niggas, pimp niggas like hoes | |
| Command a mack that's immaculate, your girl's naked | |
| You think she ain't been hit, kid yo, you best to check it | |
| For ten years | |
| I been connected to the top of this | |
| Hold your breath, kid, | |
| I'm never droppin' this | |
| Too busy rollin' off them fat chrome rims | |
| And niggas who trip get sung hymns | |
| We crash clubs and security shits' | |
| Cause they know they got size but they know we keep clips | |
| Crazy mutha****as lickin' shots in doors | |
| Leavin' suckers' bodies bleedin' over nightclub floors | |
| You don't want none, son, stay gone | |
| Break north when | |
| I come and you might live long | |
| Yeah, my face kickin' treble, you're just a pebble | |
| You're gettin' rocked, yo, | |
| E, cock the glock | |
| And let these niggas know, yo, that the west don't play none | |
| Fire shoots out of my strap like a ray-gun | |
| You broke ill and you cold ****ed up | |
| Now you're bleedin' through your fingers while you're holdin' your gut | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it's time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it's all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| Get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it's time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it's all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| It's the return of the real | |
| Return of the real | |
| I go deep into the street life's anatomy | |
| A nigga take me out, yo, what a upset that'd be | |
| And if I fall | |
| I fall on cushions, [Incomprehensible] | |
| Hittin' niggas up with the tec and watch the blood gushin' | |
| I see your videos, a 100 niggas in it you don't know | |
| Framed in the lens, bought friends | |
| Who really got your back, nigga, check it out | |
| You really possess like zero street clout | |
| The only place you're safe is in the studio | |
| Yellin' in the mic, you'se a bitch, that's right | |
| I take a nigga like you and make him prostitute cute | |
| So what you got a gun, punk, you're scared to shoot | |
| You front hardcore, but | |
| I don't feel ya | |
| Kids from my hood'll take your punk ass and peel ya | |
| Let me check my | |
| Rolex quick because time's money | |
| Squintin' from the pavet face because it's kinda sunny | |
| Skinnin' the top back, flossin' the rag and the thing | |
| Feelin' the sun, backin' off of my pinky ring | |
| Hittin' the ' | |
| Shaw with my niggas and clown | |
| Lift the ass, hit the switch, raise the front off the ground | |
| But most of the time you can't see a nigga | |
| Deep in the archives parlayin' new ways to get my bank bigger | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it's time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it's all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it's time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it's all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| It's the return of the real |
| Yo, what' s up with all these niggas | |
| On these mutha in' records talkin' all this bullshit | |
| I ain' t tryin' to hear that shit, man | |
| These bitches ain' t players, man | |
| Peace to my street niggas movin' that weight | |
| Much love to my comrades who' s out in upstate | |
| Mad connections from the bottom to the top of the game | |
| Street fame, | |
| I got much that' s in touch with my name | |
| Got a overload of guns to unload on a lame nigga trippin' | |
| Wake up my posse, interrup' the | |
| Re my sippin' | |
| Four in your back and keep bailin' | |
| Listen to the | |
| HK wailin' and your vital signs failin' | |
| Everyone that ever met me knows | |
| I work bitches like niggas, pimp niggas like hoes | |
| Command a mack that' s immaculate, your girl' s naked | |
| You think she ain' t been hit, kid yo, you best to check it | |
| For ten years | |
| I been connected to the top of this | |
| Hold your breath, kid, | |
| I' m never droppin' this | |
| Too busy rollin' off them fat chrome rims | |
| And niggas who trip get sung hymns | |
| We crash clubs and security shits' | |
| Cause they know they got size but they know we keep clips | |
| Crazy mutha as lickin' shots in doors | |
| Leavin' suckers' bodies bleedin' over nightclub floors | |
| You don' t want none, son, stay gone | |
| Break north when | |
| I come and you might live long | |
| Yeah, my face kickin' treble, you' re just a pebble | |
| You' re gettin' rocked, yo, | |
| E, cock the glock | |
| And let these niggas know, yo, that the west don' t play none | |
| Fire shoots out of my strap like a raygun | |
| You broke ill and you cold ed up | |
| Now you' re bleedin' through your fingers while you' re holdin' your gut | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| Get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| It' s the return of the real | |
| Return of the real | |
| I go deep into the street life' s anatomy | |
| A nigga take me out, yo, what a upset that' d be | |
| And if I fall | |
| I fall on cushions, Incomprehensible | |
| Hittin' niggas up with the tec and watch the blood gushin' | |
| I see your videos, a 100 niggas in it you don' t know | |
| Framed in the lens, bought friends | |
| Who really got your back, nigga, check it out | |
| You really possess like zero street clout | |
| The only place you' re safe is in the studio | |
| Yellin' in the mic, you' se a bitch, that' s right | |
| I take a nigga like you and make him prostitute cute | |
| So what you got a gun, punk, you' re scared to shoot | |
| You front hardcore, but | |
| I don' t feel ya | |
| Kids from my hood' ll take your punk ass and peel ya | |
| Let me check my | |
| Rolex quick because time' s money | |
| Squintin' from the pavet face because it' s kinda sunny | |
| Skinnin' the top back, flossin' the rag and the thing | |
| Feelin' the sun, backin' off of my pinky ring | |
| Hittin' the ' | |
| Shaw with my niggas and clown | |
| Lift the ass, hit the switch, raise the front off the ground | |
| But most of the time you can' t see a nigga | |
| Deep in the archives parlayin' new ways to get my bank bigger | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| It' s the return of the real |
| Yo, what' s up with all these niggas | |
| On these mutha in' records talkin' all this bullshit | |
| I ain' t tryin' to hear that shit, man | |
| These bitches ain' t players, man | |
| Peace to my street niggas movin' that weight | |
| Much love to my comrades who' s out in upstate | |
| Mad connections from the bottom to the top of the game | |
| Street fame, | |
| I got much that' s in touch with my name | |
| Got a overload of guns to unload on a lame nigga trippin' | |
| Wake up my posse, interrup' the | |
| Ré my sippin' | |
| Four in your back and keep bailin' | |
| Listen to the | |
| HK wailin' and your vital signs failin' | |
| Everyone that ever met me knows | |
| I work bitches like niggas, pimp niggas like hoes | |
| Command a mack that' s immaculate, your girl' s naked | |
| You think she ain' t been hit, kid yo, you best to check it | |
| For ten years | |
| I been connected to the top of this | |
| Hold your breath, kid, | |
| I' m never droppin' this | |
| Too busy rollin' off them fat chrome rims | |
| And niggas who trip get sung hymns | |
| We crash clubs and security shits' | |
| Cause they know they got size but they know we keep clips | |
| Crazy mutha as lickin' shots in doors | |
| Leavin' suckers' bodies bleedin' over nightclub floors | |
| You don' t want none, son, stay gone | |
| Break north when | |
| I come and you might live long | |
| Yeah, my face kickin' treble, you' re just a pebble | |
| You' re gettin' rocked, yo, | |
| E, cock the glock | |
| And let these niggas know, yo, that the west don' t play none | |
| Fire shoots out of my strap like a raygun | |
| You broke ill and you cold ed up | |
| Now you' re bleedin' through your fingers while you' re holdin' your gut | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| Get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| It' s the return of the real | |
| Return of the real | |
| I go deep into the street life' s anatomy | |
| A nigga take me out, yo, what a upset that' d be | |
| And if I fall | |
| I fall on cushions, Incomprehensible | |
| Hittin' niggas up with the tec and watch the blood gushin' | |
| I see your videos, a 100 niggas in it you don' t know | |
| Framed in the lens, bought friends | |
| Who really got your back, nigga, check it out | |
| You really possess like zero street clout | |
| The only place you' re safe is in the studio | |
| Yellin' in the mic, you' se a bitch, that' s right | |
| I take a nigga like you and make him prostitute cute | |
| So what you got a gun, punk, you' re scared to shoot | |
| You front hardcore, but | |
| I don' t feel ya | |
| Kids from my hood' ll take your punk ass and peel ya | |
| Let me check my | |
| Rolex quick because time' s money | |
| Squintin' from the pavet face because it' s kinda sunny | |
| Skinnin' the top back, flossin' the rag and the thing | |
| Feelin' the sun, backin' off of my pinky ring | |
| Hittin' the ' | |
| Shaw with my niggas and clown | |
| Lift the ass, hit the switch, raise the front off the ground | |
| But most of the time you can' t see a nigga | |
| Deep in the archives parlayin' new ways to get my bank bigger | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| So get your money how you want to, friend | |
| But when it' s time to count the chips only the real will win | |
| The game of life is only fake and true | |
| But it' s all about the dollars when the day is through | |
| It' s the return of the real |
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