Le Tigre: The real one

Only the realest can feel us, cap-peelers and killersHundred-dollar billers and real niggas Bitches with dime figures, telekenesis in my mindMake my diamonds shine, then I blind niggasPussy punk perpatrators and playa haters -They can't fade us 'cause we two of the greatestBack out to let 'em have it, fake fucks and faggotsBow down in the presence of players and kiss the karatsA wrist full of (?) for all the maggotsBack up and get embarrassed, bitch, get off my carriageUncut, no lactose, hear the raw doseStraight off the key, 100% GWho's puttin' it down on Miami's behalfHome of the nickel (?) and the raw halfEverywhere we go, the impression's feltThe real is stamped on the bag and the dope is dealtChorus (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-TIt's '98, playa, check your gameMake sure them young boys respect your nameKeep your heed at arms, reached, cocked and ready'Cause the streets'll catch you slippin' and rock you steadyWatch your back with your homies that you feel is realYour homeboys from your crew, yeah, they're the ones who doYeah, the suckas that got the playa hater venom,I wanna take 'em outside and lay slugs up in 'emBut that's trippin', and that ain't my sportI'd rather lamp up my cirb and flip to rob a portI sip my v-dozen on the street, bump my beatsWhen 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 listHuh, that shit would be nice, but your name ain't Ice(Nigga trip) And screw the style and so on, rock you softlyHow you gonna step to me, kid, you grew up off meTV, movies and records and toursSo many buses in Versace I don't wear it no moreCalled 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."ChorusVerse 3: Brother MarquisI'ma stay in the field, on a quest for the mil'sAnd try to keep it real till I die or get killedSo I can sit back and kick it, write my own ticketAnd live this lavish lifestyle of trickin' and big-dickin'Seein' that the West and the South's connectedFormulatin', plottin' game to perfectionDown with the Syndicate, bossin' new tennis shitCrimes cold defended, get caught, do the sinThere's politickin' in the 600, drunk and bluntedThat's how we front it, but you don't wanna run up on itInside the club packin', actin', Got my bitch at home c-sackin', got my ones stackin'Parlay, playin' diamond link, cubin' cableBaddest bitches in the stable, mo' money on the tableI'm back in the game to show 'em how it's doneIce-T and Marquis, you're fuckin' with the real one!Chorus