The Real One Lyrics
| Song | The Real One |
| Artist | 2 Live Crew |
| Album | The Real One |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Verse 1：[brother marquis] | |
| Only the realest can feel us, cap-peelers and killers | |
| Hundred-dollar billers and real niggas | |
| Bitches with dime figures, telekenesis in my mind | |
| Make my diamonds shine, then i blind niggas | |
| Pussy punk perpatrators and playa haters | |
| They can't fade us 'cause we two of the greatest | |
| Back out to let 'em have it, fake ****s and faggots | |
| Bow down in the presence of players and kiss the karats | |
| A wrist full of (?) for all the maggots | |
| Back up and get embarrassed, bitch, get off my carriage | |
| Uncut, no lactose, hear the raw dose | |
| Straight off the key, 100% g | |
| Who's puttin' it down on miami's behalf | |
| Home of the nickel (?) and the raw half | |
| Everywhere we go, the impression's felt | |
| The real is stamped on the bag and the dope is dealt | |
| Chorus (2x): | |
| Gat in the back, sunroof top, | |
| Real one on the scene with the gangsta lean | |
| The real one! | |
| Huh? | |
| Whut? | |
| The real one! | |
| Huh, nigga whut? | |
| Verse 2: [ice-t] | |
| It's '98, playa, check your game | |
| Make sure them young boys respect your name | |
| Keep your heed at arms, reached, cocked and ready | |
| 'cause the streets'll catch you slippin' and rock you steady | |
| Watch your back with your homies that you feel is real | |
| Your homeboys from your crew, yeah, they're the ones who do | |
| Yeah, the suckas that got the playa hater venom, | |
| I wanna take 'em outside and lay slugs up in 'em | |
| But that's trippin', and that ain't my sport | |
| I'd rather lamp up my cirb and flip to rob a port | |
| I sip my v-dozen on the street, bump my beats | |
| When i'm twistin' my dub, can't nobody compete | |
| Imagine this | |
| Hundred-g lex on your wrist | |
| Imagine this | |
| About 10 karats on your fist | |
| Imagine this | |
| All dime hoes on your list | |
| Huh, that shit would be nice, but your name ain't ice | |
| Nigga trip | |
| And screw the style and so on, rock you softly | |
| How you gonna step to me, kid, you grew up off me | |
| Tv, movies and records and tours | |
| So many buses in versace i don't wear it no more | |
| Called my nigga in miami, "marquis, wussup?" | |
| He said, "playa, chop some game on this bubblin' cut!" | |
| I said, "shoot me the track, or you can come too, | |
| Or if y'all wanna ball in cali, i'll fly in your whole crew." | |
| Chorus | |
| Verse 3: [brother marquis] | |
| I'ma stay in the field, on a quest for the mil's | |
| And try to keep it real till i die or get killed | |
| So i can sit back and kick it, write my own ticket | |
| And live this lavish lifestyle of trickin' and big-dickin' | |
| Seein' that the west and the south's connected | |
| Formulatin', plottin' game to perfection | |
| Down with the syndicate, bossin' new tennis shit | |
| Crimes cold defended, get caught, do the sin | |
| There's politickin' in the 600, drunk and blunted | |
| That's how we front it, but you don't wanna run up on it | |
| Inside the club packin', actin', | |
| Got my bitch at home c-sackin', got my ones stackin' | |
| Parlay, playin' diamond link, cubin' cable | |
| Baddest bitches in the stable, mo' money on the table | |
| I'm back in the game to show 'em how it's done | |
| Ice-t and marquis, you're ****in' with the real one! |
| Verse 1: brother marquis | |
| Only the realest can feel us, cappeelers and killers | |
| Hundreddollar billers and real niggas | |
| Bitches with dime figures, telekenesis in my mind | |
| Make my diamonds shine, then i blind niggas | |
| Pussy punk perpatrators and playa haters | |
| They can' t fade us ' cause we two of the greatest | |
| Back out to let ' em have it, fake s and faggots | |
| Bow down in the presence of players and kiss the karats | |
| A wrist full of ? for all the maggots | |
| Back up and get embarrassed, bitch, get off my carriage | |
| Uncut, no lactose, hear the raw dose | |
| Straight off the key, 100 g | |
| Who' s puttin' it down on miami' s behalf | |
| Home of the nickel ? and the raw half | |
| Everywhere we go, the impression' s felt | |
| The real is stamped on the bag and the dope is dealt | |
| Chorus 2x: | |
| Gat in the back, sunroof top, | |
| Real one on the scene with the gangsta lean | |
| The real one! | |
| Huh? | |
| Whut? | |
| The real one! | |
| Huh, nigga whut? | |
| Verse 2: icet | |
| It' s ' 98, playa, check your game | |
| Make sure them young boys respect your name | |
| Keep your heed at arms, reached, cocked and ready | |
| ' cause the streets' ll catch you slippin' and rock you steady | |
| Watch your back with your homies that you feel is real | |
| Your homeboys from your crew, yeah, they' re the ones who do | |
| Yeah, the suckas that got the playa hater venom, | |
| I wanna take ' em outside and lay slugs up in ' em | |
| But that' s trippin', and that ain' t my sport | |
| I' d rather lamp up my cirb and flip to rob a port | |
| I sip my vdozen on the street, bump my beats | |
| When i' m twistin' my dub, can' t nobody compete | |
| Imagine this | |
| Hundredg lex on your wrist | |
| Imagine this | |
| About 10 karats on your fist | |
| Imagine this | |
| All dime hoes on your list | |
| Huh, that shit would be nice, but your name ain' t ice | |
| Nigga trip | |
| And screw the style and so on, rock you softly | |
| How you gonna step to me, kid, you grew up off me | |
| Tv, movies and records and tours | |
| So many buses in versace i don' t wear it no more | |
| Called my nigga in miami, " marquis, wussup?" | |
| He said, " playa, chop some game on this bubblin' cut!" | |
| I said, " shoot me the track, or you can come too, | |
| Or if y' all wanna ball in cali, i' ll fly in your whole crew." | |
| Chorus | |
| Verse 3: brother marquis | |
| I' ma stay in the field, on a quest for the mil' s | |
| And try to keep it real till i die or get killed | |
| So i can sit back and kick it, write my own ticket | |
| And live this lavish lifestyle of trickin' and bigdickin' | |
| Seein' that the west and the south' s connected | |
| Formulatin', plottin' game to perfection | |
| Down with the syndicate, bossin' new tennis shit | |
| Crimes cold defended, get caught, do the sin | |
| There' s politickin' in the 600, drunk and blunted | |
| That' s how we front it, but you don' t wanna run up on it | |
| Inside the club packin', actin', | |
| Got my bitch at home csackin', got my ones stackin' | |
| Parlay, playin' diamond link, cubin' cable | |
| Baddest bitches in the stable, mo' money on the table | |
| I' m back in the game to show ' em how it' s done | |
| Icet and marquis, you' re in' with the real one! |
| Verse 1: brother marquis | |
| Only the realest can feel us, cappeelers and killers | |
| Hundreddollar billers and real niggas | |
| Bitches with dime figures, telekenesis in my mind | |
| Make my diamonds shine, then i blind niggas | |
| Pussy punk perpatrators and playa haters | |
| They can' t fade us ' cause we two of the greatest | |
| Back out to let ' em have it, fake s and faggots | |
| Bow down in the presence of players and kiss the karats | |
| A wrist full of ? for all the maggots | |
| Back up and get embarrassed, bitch, get off my carriage | |
| Uncut, no lactose, hear the raw dose | |
| Straight off the key, 100 g | |
| Who' s puttin' it down on miami' s behalf | |
| Home of the nickel ? and the raw half | |
| Everywhere we go, the impression' s felt | |
| The real is stamped on the bag and the dope is dealt | |
| Chorus 2x: | |
| Gat in the back, sunroof top, | |
| Real one on the scene with the gangsta lean | |
| The real one! | |
| Huh? | |
| Whut? | |
| The real one! | |
| Huh, nigga whut? | |
| Verse 2: icet | |
| It' s ' 98, playa, check your game | |
| Make sure them young boys respect your name | |
| Keep your heed at arms, reached, cocked and ready | |
| ' cause the streets' ll catch you slippin' and rock you steady | |
| Watch your back with your homies that you feel is real | |
| Your homeboys from your crew, yeah, they' re the ones who do | |
| Yeah, the suckas that got the playa hater venom, | |
| I wanna take ' em outside and lay slugs up in ' em | |
| But that' s trippin', and that ain' t my sport | |
| I' d rather lamp up my cirb and flip to rob a port | |
| I sip my vdozen on the street, bump my beats | |
| When i' m twistin' my dub, can' t nobody compete | |
| Imagine this | |
| Hundredg lex on your wrist | |
| Imagine this | |
| About 10 karats on your fist | |
| Imagine this | |
| All dime hoes on your list | |
| Huh, that shit would be nice, but your name ain' t ice | |
| Nigga trip | |
| And screw the style and so on, rock you softly | |
| How you gonna step to me, kid, you grew up off me | |
| Tv, movies and records and tours | |
| So many buses in versace i don' t wear it no more | |
| Called my nigga in miami, " marquis, wussup?" | |
| He said, " playa, chop some game on this bubblin' cut!" | |
| I said, " shoot me the track, or you can come too, | |
| Or if y' all wanna ball in cali, i' ll fly in your whole crew." | |
| Chorus | |
| Verse 3: brother marquis | |
| I' ma stay in the field, on a quest for the mil' s | |
| And try to keep it real till i die or get killed | |
| So i can sit back and kick it, write my own ticket | |
| And live this lavish lifestyle of trickin' and bigdickin' | |
| Seein' that the west and the south' s connected | |
| Formulatin', plottin' game to perfection | |
| Down with the syndicate, bossin' new tennis shit | |
| Crimes cold defended, get caught, do the sin | |
| There' s politickin' in the 600, drunk and blunted | |
| That' s how we front it, but you don' t wanna run up on it | |
| Inside the club packin', actin', | |
| Got my bitch at home csackin', got my ones stackin' | |
| Parlay, playin' diamond link, cubin' cable | |
| Baddest bitches in the stable, mo' money on the table | |
| I' m back in the game to show ' em how it' s done | |
| Icet and marquis, you' re in' with the real one! |
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