Got Ur Self A... lyrics

[Intro - Sample]

Woke up this mornin'

You got yourself a gun

You got yourself a gun

[Hook]

Yo, I'm living in this time behind enemy lines

So I got mine, I hope you (got yourself a gun)

You from the hood, I hope you (got yourself a gun)

You want beef, I hope you (got yourself a gun)

And when I see you I'ma take what I want

So you tried to front, hope you (got yourself a gun)

You ain't real, hope you (got yourself a gun)

[Verse 1]

My first album had no famous guest appearances

The outcome: I'm crowned the best lyricist

Many years on this professional level

Why would you question who's better, the world is still mine

Tattoo's real, with "God's Son" across the belly

The boss of rap, you saw me in Belly with thoughts like that

To take it back to Africa, I did it with Biggie

Me and 2Pac were soldiers of the same struggle

You lames a huddle, your teams shook y'all feel

The wrath of a killer, cause this is my football field

Throwing passes from a barrel, shoulder pads, apparel

But the Q.B. don't stand for no quarterback

Every word is like a sawed-off blast cause y'all all soft

And I'm the black hearse that came to haul y'all ass in

It's for the hood by the corner store

Many try, many die

Come at Nas if you want a war, get it bloody

[Hook]

[Verse 2]

I'm the N the A to the S-I-R

And If I wasn't, I must've been Escobar

You know the kid got his chipped tooth fixed hair parted with a

Barber's preciseness, Bravehearted for life, it's

The return of the Golden Child, son of a blues player

So who are you, player? Y'all awaited the true savior

Puffing that tropical. Cups of that vodka, too

Papi chu', tore up, wake up in a hospital

Throw up? never, 'member I do this through righteous steps

You Judas thought I was gone, so in light of my death

Y'all been all happy-go-lucky, bunch of sambos

Call me "God's Son" with my pants low

I don't die slow, put them rags up like Petey Pablo

This is Nasdaq though, in my Nascar

With this Nas flow, what could beat that? Not a soul repping

Hit the record store, never let me go, get my whole collection

[Hook]

[Verse 3]

It's the return of the prince, the boss

This is real hardcore, Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit soft

Sip Cris, get chips, wrist gloss I floss

Stick-shift look sick up in that Boxster Porsche

With the top cut off, rich kids go and cop The Source

They don't know about the blocks I'm on

And everybody wanna know where the kid go

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 y'all watching my moves, my watch and my jewels

Hop in my coupe, dodge interviews like that

It's not only my jewels, ice anything, plenty chains

Look at my tennis shoes, I iced that

Who am I?

The back twister, lingerie ripper

Automatic leg-spreader, quicker brain-getter

Keeping it gangsta with ya'

[Hook]