or
KRS-One

Hardcore
Everybody on the floor, everybody on the floor
PMD, Erick Sermon
You what it is, listen to my man
Run your jewelry
Hands up
Yes, Peace to Just Ice
Be scared
Bronx

Yo, the real dynamic duo, and i quote
G boys, I bring it back to a droopy 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'ma Las Vegas fight Don King in the ring
Does my thing from father spring, that's all year
I can feel in a wannabe 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'ma just saying he did
EPMD I'm scared for us
Cause someone might bite the dust
We don't rush shower
The power I got is snappin' necks
So I suggest ya show respect
We own that

[Chorus: x2]
Now put your hand in the air
Keep 'em there
Run your jewels, run it
Run your jewels, run it
Run your jewels, motherfucker

You heard what we said man, we ain't playin'
Don't wait till it starts sprayin'
We set it of while the DJ playin'
Run your jewels, run it
Run your jewels, motherfucker

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 fuck up, back eye with the nose bleed
My dudes be like dude chill
I be like fuck chill
Cats complainin' bout the game, pass 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 shit 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 niggaz 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

[Chorus]

I bring the heat quick
I do it, kill Ramone in Beat Street
I get the club rockin' on some seasick shit
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 y'all know cash like E-Zpass
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 ass
I'm old school I off you with a peace of glass
Run your jewels, you know who it be, KRS-EPMD

[Chorus]

Written by SMITH, PARRISH JOSEFF / SERMON, ERICK / PARKER, LAWRENCE
Published by EMI Music Publishing

Lyrics Provided By LyricFind Inc.