Real Hip Hop

Lyrics

[Intro: Robot Voice] Mr. Porter has asked me to warn you that this next joint may harm your speakers [Verse 1: Royce Da 5'9"] If this ain't real hip hop nigga tell me what it is then Walking sci-fi cyborg, my image is Napalm, translation, you tampon bleed Like the opposite of mankind Tryna put your hands on my damn rod You might as well handstand on a land mine If I ain't bout that, let adversity hurt me Like if I ain't bounce back, all I do is count stacks You can't put me and flames in the same quote Beast on the track, me and Usain Bolt in the same boat Mention me and lightning in the same volt Crqckers amphibian, I'm a handful Guns give you suntans like a Pakistan Indian, pop shit Quick enough to snatch a fly out the air with some fuckin' chopsticks, uh-uh-uh Nigga, who hotter than me? I'm on a million dollar-AK-hollering spree (Nickel!) [Verse 2: Black Milk] If this ain't raw shit, then nigga, I'm lost in the game And that means everyone remains comin' with that soft shit This is that dark flow, caught up in the alley walking Like "Losing Out Pt. 2" without Alan Parsons Take precaution, the percussion is danger These niggas feelin' anger, like ever since we came up, ugh My circle always come prepared While other cats is like a plaid shirt: All I see is a bunch of squares Have a bunch of Leers out in London on stage Watching hands to the ceiling while rocking in front of fans Yeah, we so in here, so advanced, so far into the future Copping grands, these niggas won't comprehend This game looks wide open in my eyes So, of course, I took it and ran with it like a baton, ch-ch And passed it to my fam, the legacy lives on Fuck being a hundred deep, we're trying to be a mil' strong [Verse 3: Elzhi] If this ain't hip hop, like Dickies and flip-flops Or Phillies and Timbos, the Willies with trimmed fros Ya'll silly as bimbos and hillbillies, still illy with them flows My skill really shine like gemstones In Beverly Hills, feel me? New sheriff in town, the flair with the sounds Since rap was lost in the mainstream, but who care if it drowns? My brain scheme is complex like the magazine Swagger's mean like gan-related rags and jeans Tag a scene, smack machines, make the maggots lean I drag machines like blunts from outta bags of green On Dud's stash! So playa I pull the stud's math Those in power get golden showers and bloodbaths In shitstorms, I spit thorns and pierce through The nearest crew, who never knew I was fierce, but Fear is true with the clearest view They grim and hate, and imitate what they hear us doin' Immolate, I'll demonstrate how their spear flew To higher ground and came down like a parachute For fucking with me, Royce, Black, and June We'll lay you on your back in the black lagoon [Outro: Royce Da 5'9"] If this ain't real hip-hop What the fuck is it then?