Can this be Real Paroles

Got my homeboy Young Floyd in the house

J-Ro's in the house

But yo



[ VERSE 1 ]

Now here's somethin everybody can relate to

I know you hate to, but I feel great to

Be the man to shake you, awake you and make you

Stop sleepin, and I do what it takes to

Bring a screechin halt to the snoozin
You never even bothered to take it out the jacket

Put it on the turntable, have a listen

Then if it's wack, start dissin

Now I understand why you're dissin my cut

So I spit in my foot and stick my fist up your butt

Cause you have no business, really in this

And I have no time for that diss-diss

I shoot a rhyme at you like I'm shootin to kill

And you can do is ask yourself (can this be real?)



[ VERSE 2 ]

Now this song, I dedicate it to the sleepers

Nothing real hard, just a little teaser

For those who told those that the King Tee was done with

No, not quite, yo Pooh - pump it

Suckers don't front, I know it's me you admire

I take your girl, set her soul on fire

I use the mic like a gun and my rhymes like ammo

I go Tyson while others go Rambo

Pooh-puts are warned, break north while you can, bub

Give up rappin, join my fanclub

I'm the rap reverend, hip-hop evangelist

Yo, I can handle this, pass me the canabis

Pro rap artist, and my rhymes are kinda raunchy

Start with somethin smooth, end with somethin punchy

See, I can rock, funk, rock, reggae or salsa

Heavy metal or some soul, disco at the casa

Just to the point of a vinyl convention

Tee does the rappin, E does the mixin

So if you're still sleepin, yo, that's ill

But when you're awake - what's your question?

(Tell me, can this be real?)



Let me see if I can bust this one off

Right here

One take



[ VERSE 3 ]

As I resume with my rhymes, or should I say continue

You got the nerve to try to pretend you

Don't like what I'm doin or sayin so far

But usually when I'm done you're satisfied, of course

I don't front or fake, don't base or sniff

Don't rob or steal or shoot dice and pimp

Cause I love to hang out with my posse and chill

You might think I'm a thug, so think what you will

I got a girl with a curl, and a homie named Sonny

Never smoked crack, cause the shit smelled funny

King Tee, my alter ego, there's not to be a sequel

Suckers try to diss me when I entertain the people

Hey, I'm a murderer, your girl, I'm servin her

You feel like beefin - hah, the nerve of ya

I hit you so hard, it make your mother feel dizzy

Back up, punk, the King came to get busy

(Tell me, can this be real?)