You better run, you better run But the one thing that I ask That you live without reserve That you find out what you need You sure it's you deserve You better run
Juvenile] Baby, gimme the keys, gimme the G's, gimme the weed, gimme the mack-10 Let me see what's happenin, to me these niggas lackin Some tellin me
here we go" Verse One: 2Pac Tell me, how many real motherfuckers feel me? I smoke a blunt and freak the funk until these jealous motherfuckers kill me
alright, don't trip baby *inhales* It'll get better... *coughing* Ay do this Thug style main, Thug style When this whole beat drop we just gon' run it
of a better planet Realism hard to understand, we stand slanted and still stranded, merciless thieves stole the best of me I pray to black Jesus to please take the rest of me
through Tennessee Feel like my soul is beginning to expand Look into my heart and you will sort of understand You brought me here, now you're trying to run me
t be bucking on my Bone When someone's home and never play to me And pray to me, can't play with me So label me a runaway slave And "Cest la vie"! Murda
is breakin' 'em down Me breakin' 'em down, man Bump the Enterpri$e is breakin' 'em down Me breakin' 'em down, man Me breakin' down, me breakin' down Me
Leave me alone) Ringaling, ah ling, me alone Ringaling, ah ling me alone (Leave me alone) Ringaling, ah ling, me alone Ringaling, ah ling me alone (Leave me
to Eazy through the Ouija So I can see If maybe he can tell me Why you're hatin on me, bitin on me Why you want me To show a nigga Leather Face, and he
ya feel? Let me know if everything remains real! Word up! Tell me how ya feel! I feel good tonight, talk to me tell me how do ya feel so that everything
want me to press on they luck, bastard they son When gats start to hum and whole crowds begin to run Annihilation, destroyin all expectations Have relatives
in all shapes sizes and colors Let me get the rope And hang `em `till their fuckin' necks broke Wind passage cut off, now you can't breathe Let me give
I Walk-Walk Around Like I Gotta S On My Chest It B That Cash Money Piece Cold Restin The Dead [Birdman:] Yeah, Cash Money Is An Army Nigga, Yuh Better
henny kill a dupstep And I murder everything while becoming a suspect Better hit the lights Better know that I'm a come and I'm a run them off You know
we run this rap shit O & Sparks, we runnin this rap shit Chris & Neef, we runnin this rap shit {*"Watch out!! We run New York" - KRS-One*} A wise man told me
pies Whassup to E and Kirk? Welcome home to Taj Let no amount of money ruin this thing of ours We run streets like drunks run street lights We collidin
s Killah Priest I dedicate this one for the thugs on the streets America, you know for the poor, we moan and me weep That's me, come on!) Cat gotta do
