Correction Lyrics Realest Niggas by Rick Ross

Featuring(s) : Gillie Da Kid & Reed Dollaz

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Lyrics

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

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

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

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]

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