Got Ur Self A Gun Lyrics

[Intro]Woke up this mornin', (yeah)You got yo'self a gun (yeah, yeah, yeah)Got yo'self a gun[Nas]Yo, I'm livin' in this time behind enemy linesSo...[Chorus]I got mine, I hope you (got yo'self a gun)You from the hood I hope you (got yo'self a gun)You want beef? I hope ya (got yo'self a gun)And when I see you I'ma take what I wantSo, you tried to front, hope ya (got yo'self a gun)You ain't real, hope ya (got yo'self a gun)[Verse 1]My, first album had no famous guest appearancesThe outcome: I'm crowned the best lyricistMany years on this professional levelWhy would you question who's better? The world is still mineTattoos real with "God's Son" across the bellyThe boss of rap, you saw me in "Belly" with thoughts like thatTo take it back to Africa, I did it with BiggieMe and Tupac were soldiers of the same struggleYou lames should huddle, your team's shookY'all feel the wrath of a killer, 'cause this is my football fieldThrowin' passes from a barrel, shoulder pads apparelBut the Q.B. don't stand for no quarterbackEvery word is like a sawed-off blast, 'cause y'all all softAnd I'm the black hearse that came to haul y'all ass inIt's for the hood by the corner storeMany try, many die, come at Nas if you want a war, get it bloody, uh[Chorus][Verse 2]Yo, I'm the N the A to the S-I-RAnd If I wasn't, I must've been EscobarYou know the kid got his chipped tooth fixedHair parted with a barber's preciseness; Bravehearted for lifeIt's the return of the Golden Child, son of a blue's playerSo who are you playa? Y'all 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 deathY'all been all happy-go-lucky, bunch of sambosCall me "God's Son", with my pants lowI don't die slow, put them rags up like Petey PabloThis is Nasdaq dough, in my Nascar with this Nas flowFlip the beat back, now it's all reppin'Hit the record sto', never let me go, get my whole collection, yo[Chorus][Verse 3]It's, the, return of the Prince, the bossThis is real hardcore, Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit's softSip Cris', get chips, wrist gliss, I flossStick shift, look sick up in that Boxter PorscheWith the top cut off, rich kids go and cop The SourceThey don't know about the blocks I'm onAnd 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 watchin' my moves, my watch and my jewelsHop in my coupe, dodge interviews like thatIt's 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, uh[Chorus 2x]

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