Rick Ross - Realest n***as lyrics

[Hook:] 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 f** is you mean My game green with your money round here Ridin' [?] blowing kush in the air Chopper on the lap case a n***a actin' tall in it Dip it in the bub' way before it's gettin' started [Verse 1: Rick Ross] I'm not stuck in the game, I f** 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 [?] survivor and if a n***a 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 [?] straight dykes, what you pay like? Fo' five six, how I roll my sh** One of the six five, I sold my sh** [Hook] [Verse 2: Gillie Da Kid] See 'em like Jack Tripper, 3 b**hes 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 a** was in diapers Gillie, you see I let the techs speak Held a n***a 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 b**hes, I'm talkin' 'bout paper Acres, so much layin' I never see my neighbors [Hook] [Verse 3: Reed Dollaz] Ice cream scooper, those about 400 that's just my footwear, c'mon Bang bang to the d**h 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]