Guilty Simpson - Run lyrics

[Verse 1: Guilty Simpson] Okay, Random Axe in the jam with Macs Quick to let 'em clap like hands to dap So street, yeah, we do it obese Straight from the hood, so screw the police f** the law with his cat, rat, dog, raw The reason that your walk turns jog The reason that your jog turns run The reason that your run turns sprint .38 snub with gloves, no prints So you can see it in my eyes, I'm so tense We have no rules, it's beef Magic, I make a 7 footer 6 feet If you got problems, get geek Get beat, get shot, get sleep Inflict hurt on 'em Dig that hole and kick dirt on 'em [Hook: Black Milk] Make 'em gun, make 'em run The game is over, game is done n***as mean business and n***a you ain't us Show you how to k** 'em, we changing the game up [Verse 2: Sean Price] Listen: skets that clap I'm the best at that Quick to stretch cats like wrestling match Yeah, so ill, Brownsville Mic Tyson and Riddick Bowe, so what's the deal? Still one of the best, you ain't on Sean's level 3rd place n***as with bronze medals Sean is a don rebel Sipping Chandon with the blonde devil Anna Nicole Smith, duke, I plead the Fifth Piff, puff puff pa** to no one Afro American ninja that'll injure your shoguns, P! Body the best, a lot of y'all stressed Chill, cop a pill, watch Dr. Phil Got sk**s? Chop crills, get guap for real In the mosque making salat like Akh is ill Wa'alaikum Salam, I'm breaking your arm n***as still hating on Sean, I'm dating your moms [Hook: Black Milk] [Verse 3: Guilty Simpson] A lot of cats talk sh**, but don't test the D though M16's break up teams like T.O So gutter, ho cutter, 'dro puffer, dough tucker Fo' bucker, murdering MC's with ice With my mad man Jesus Price NYC with the D-E-T A.D. with the legendary BCC [Verse 4: Sean Price] A lot of n***as want to ride or die Till I shoot up the driver's side of your window Now die in your ride Tough talking gets you touched, 2Pac Shakur sh** Went from a thug but now, you not too sure b**h Akh, I walk with four-fifths and nines Y'all n***as can't rap, forfeit your rhymes Four-fifth your mind, .38 your face And 12-gauge shotty your body I get cake, n***a [Hook: Black Milk]