Epmd - Run it lyrics

Hardcore Everybody on the floor, everbody on the floor PMD, Erick Sermon You what it is, listen to my man Run your j**elry Hands up Yes, Peace to Just Ice Be scared Bronx [Erick Sermon] Yo, the real dynamic duo, and I quote G boys, I bring it back to a dooky rope, dope I sport like I if I spit the commandments So inspired, now who the hell your man wit? And he's gangsta right? He belong in a dimwit type You picked the wrong night I'mma Las Vegas fight Don King in the ring Does my thing from father spring, thats all year I can feel in a wannbe rapper turned actor He wanna act tough it hit him with the clapper Def-con actor, see I ain't playing kid He screamed and I'mma just saying he did EPMD I'm scared for us Cause someone might bite the dust Before rush hour The power I got is snappin necks So I suggest ya show respect We own that [Hook 2x] Now put your hand in the air Keep 'em there Run your j**els, run it Run your j**els, run it Run your j**els, motherf**er You heard what we said man, we ain't playin Dont wait till it starts sprayin We set it of while the DJ playin Run your juwels, run it Run your j**els, motherf**er [Parrish Smith] Cats walking past your crib, walk in your house Go in your mouth, talkin you out But EMS we spying we carryin you out With the slow IV fee Woken the f** up, back eye with the nose bleed My dudes be like dude chill I be like f** chill Cats complainin bout the game, pa** the pill EPMD is too real, y'all know The only reason why you eatin, cause we payed the bill How many times I got to tell you the sh** shut down 'til Erick and Parrish return and hold the B-Boys down Step through the door, hot body and lick off the ground Uhu, I see n***as listening now Faces is wrecked like wild There goes EMP with the fisherman hat Four back, get hit with the gun pow Respect the gods, excuse me, I beg your pa Can't hear you, you got to grade up, cause the beats too hard [Hook] [KRS-One] I bring the heat quick I do it, k** Ramone in Beat Street I get the club rockin on some seasick sh** I ain't gotta tell you I'm hood man, you can see I'm it My rhyme hits, I don't preach 'bout cash Cause most of yall know cash like E-Zpa** You came in talkin bout you gon beat me Then you left out talkin bout "just give me two more CDs" You're young so you need to be gangsters While real G's wanna sit home and read the paper Courtside view with the LA Lakers But its always some youngin you got to send to his maker And I don't need the ratchet to reach your a** I'm old school I off you with a peace of gla** Run your j**els, you know who it be, KRS-EPMD [Hook]