Running Game On Real Lyrics

Running Game On Real lyrics

[Intro: Frukwan]

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]