Realest Niggas

[Hook:]

This here's for the real money makers ridin’ clean

Pockets on ugh shorty talkin’ on the jean

Never get caught ‘cuz my dip game mean

Sippin’ that lean, the fuck is you mean

My game green with your money round here

Ridin' [?] blowing kush in the air

Chopper on the lap case a nigga actin' tall in it

Nip it in the bub' way before it's gettin' started

[Verse 1: Rick Ross]

I’m not stuck in the game, I fuck with the game

Sleep late, a nice brunch at P. F. Chang's

Lettuce rap, fresh pineapple juice

Sip a Cosmo while I lie in Malibu

I get the truck washed while I’m sittin’ inside

If you feel this, wait till I’m spittin’ that live

If you livin’ a lie, you gotta face the dirt

Fully automatics and a few racial slurs

Eye of the tiger fire saliva if a nigga sound like me I’m more than likely the author, leader

Slaughter, lead the war, great right

I stay tight with the straight type

And take white to the head late night

Stay tight slay mics straight dykes, what you pay like?

Fo’ five six, how I roll my shit

One of the six five, I sold my shit

[Hook]

[Verse 2: Gillie Da Kid]

See ‘em like Jack Tripper, 3 bitches I’m living comfortably

Roll with me and my guns cause three is company

And they don’t like us, feds wanna indite us

Sentence us with the lifers but snitchin’ ain’t like us

How I roll, I stick to the code

I was getting bankrolls while your ass was in diapers

Gillie, you see I let the techs speak

Held a nigga 350 hundred pounds next week

I hit ‘em righty in the ground next week

Golden on Saturday, it's going down next week

We get money homie we don’t wish

I cook a [?] pizza, colored in deep dish

I re-up ever week quick, so it's needless to say

I’m getting’ money hater

And while you’re talkin’ ‘bout bitches, I’m talkin’ ‘bout paper

Acres, so much layin' I never see my neighbors

[Hook]

[Verse 3: Reed Dollaz]

Ice cream scooper, those about 400 that’s just my footwear, c'mon

Bang bang to the death of me

Hoes see I'm the chef I got the recipe

So it's best you should know, dolla all about his paper

That's why all grandpas, uncles and brothers be hating me

I break 'em down from A to Z, don't play with me

Not toy brick, no joy-stick, no playing me

Hey, the chicks feeling my swag

The hood scream: 'Reed get in your back!'

So which one? Louis Vitton or the ice cream [?]

Ice cream sneaks too, my socks match that

[?] Who gon' stop that? You gon' stop that?

You get popped that, teddy bear, candles , right where the block at

Bullet went through the front, brains flew out back, ugh

[Hook]