Game Theory - The Roots

This is a game

I’m your specimen

This is a game

I’m your specimen

This is a game

I’m your specimen

This is a game

I’m your specimen

[Bridge:

Sly Stone

You’ve got to let me know, baby

So I can go

I’d have to fake it, I could not make it

You could not take it

Yeah, where I’ma start it at;

look, I’m a part of that

Downtown Philly, where it’s realer than a heart attack

It wasn’t really that ill until the start of crack

Now, it’s a body caught every night on the Almanac

Rock bottom, where them cops got a problem at

Where them outsiders getting popped for they wallet at

I had nothing, but I made something out of that

Now, I’m the first out the limo like Charlie Mack

From 2−1-5, it’s him, the livest one

And he’s representing Philly to the fullest

Black’s the realest, you can’t touch him

And not for nothing, if you 'bout hip-hop, then you gots to love it

If not, then, fuck it, I’m still handling

Smoking more reefer than Redman and 'em

Damaging MCs

, and my name—'Riq, geez

You endangered species

For what I do, I’m 'bout to up the fees, I’m paper chase-motivated

I ain’t the one to play with, these cats get set ablaze

You can have it y’all way, but I’d rather parlay

Just smoke O.G.

and get cabbage all day

The way foreplay causes your main thing to say:

«You style so splendid;

you 'bout your business»

You arousing my interests, you sharper than a shogun

You know the way it go, huh—game!

Know what I’m talking 'bout?

«Hus'"—that's short for «hustlers»

We Black Ink, Raw Life productions

Tryna find our spots amongst the ruckus

And be sucker-free, and free of chumps and busters, man

Yeah, get 'em, hus', get 'em, hus', get 'em, hus'

Ayo, I’m tryn get it at any cost, so it’s no remorse

When I’m blasting off like you been asking for

When Black step in the door all hats is off

Your hands up in the air going back and forth

I’m about ready for a classic massacre

I’ll make it hotter than when Shaft in Africa

Jump out a black Porshe huffing a fat cigar

Night-riding on 'em like my last name Hasselhoff

Voted unlikely to succeed 'cause my class was full

Of naysayers, cheaters and thieves

All it gave me was a good enough reason to leave

And put the writing on the wall for y’all to read it and weep

'Cause I’m the force of the Lord, the rage of Hell

You’d rather head for the hills and save yourselves

My man rip drums like he ringing the bells

The king of the realm, you seen him do his thing in a film, c’mon

«Hus'"—that's short for «hustlers»

We Black Ink, Raw Life productions

Tryna find our spots amongst the ruckus

And be sucker-free, and free of chumps and busters, man

Yeah, get 'em, hus', get 'em, hus', get 'em, hus'

Dreams with M16s with infrared beams

Blowing up presidents' cribs with cans of kerosene

Hijack the limousine with a strategic routine

Then blast my enemies, head for the Caribbeans

The militant guerilla camp is ready for war

Lay you on the face-down

Place down your jewels, cash and four-four

When I score, prepare for torture

Fuck around and make your town Warsaw

I’m from Illadel', the land where the killers dwell

My technique is to ambush you, guerilla-style

My instinct is of a killer whale

Bang you up from head to toe

With lyrics I pack like a nine-millimal'

My type subliminal mentality switched to criminal

Importing heroin internash' from Senegal

A soldier takes his stripes from a general

Used the mic of iron or lead, you choose your mineral

This is a game

And I’m your specimen

You’ve got to let me know, baby

So I can go

I’d have to fake it, I could not make it

You could not—