Nas - Got Yourself A Gun Lyrics
[sample singing]Woke up this mornin, you got yourself a gun, you got yourself a gun..[chorus]Yo Im livin in this time behind enemy linesSo I got mine, I hope you (got yourself a gun)You from the hood, I hope you (got yourself a gunYou want beef I hope ya (got yourself a gun)And when I see you ima take what I wantSo you tried to front, hope ya (got yourself a gun)You aint real, hope ya (got yourself a gun)[verse 1]My first album had no famous guest appearancesThe outcome, Im was crowned the best lyricistMany years on this professional levelWhy would you question whos better?The world is still mine, tattoos realWith gods son across the belly, the boss of rapYou saw me in belly with thoughts like thatTo take it back to africa, I did it with biggieMe and 2pac were soldiers of the same struggleYou lames should huddle, your teams shook yall feelThe wrath of a killer, cause this is my football fieldThrowin passes from a barrel, shoulder pads, apparelBut the q.b. dont stand for no quarterbackEvery word is like a sawed-off blastcause yall all soft and Im the black hearseThat came to haul yall ass inIts for the hood by the corner storeMany try, many die, come at nas if you want a war.[chorus][verse 2]Im the n the a to the s-i-rAnd if I wasnt I mustve been escobarYou know the kid got his chipped tooth fixedHair parted with a barbers precisenessBravehearted for life, its -The return of the golden child, son of a blues playerSo who are you playa? yall awaited the true saviorPuffin that tropical, cups of that vodka tooPapi chu, tore up, wake up in a hospitalThrow up? never, member I do this through righteous stepsYou judists thought I was gone, so in light of my deathYall been all happy go lucky, bunch of sambosCall me gods son, with my pants lowI dont die slow, put them rags up like petey pabloThis is nasdaq dough, in my nascar with this nas flow, reppinHit the record sto, never let me go, get my whole collection.[chorus][verse 3]Its - the - return of the prince, the bossThis is real hardcore, kid rock and limp bizkits softSip criss, get chips, wrist gliss, I flossStick shift look sick up in that boxed up porscheWith the top cut off, rich kids go and cop the sourceThey dont know about the blocks Im onAnd everybody wanna know where the kid live, where he rest at?Where he shop at and dress at?Know he got dough, where does he live?Is he still in the bridge?Does he really know how ill that he is?Got all of yall watchin my movesMy watch and my jewelsHop in my coupe, dodge interviews like thatIts not only my jewels, ice anything, plenty chainsLook at my tennis shoes, I iced thatWho am i? the back twister, lingerie ripperAutomatic leg spreader, quicker brain getterKeepin it gangsta wit ya[chorus]
