Luyện nghe bài hát Got Ur Self A...

Woke up mornin', (yeah)
You got a gun (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Got a gun

Yo, I'm livin' in this time behind lines so

I got mine, I hope you (got a gun)
You from the hood I hope you (got a gun)
You want beef? I hope ya (got a gun)
And when I see you take what I want
So, you tried to front, ya (got yo'self a gun)
You real, hope ya (got yo'self a gun)

My, album had no famous guest appearances
The I'm crowned the best lyricist
Many years on this level
Why would you question who's better? The is still mine
Tattoos with "God's Son" across the belly
The boss of rap, you saw me in "Belly" with like that
To it back to Africa, I did it with Biggie
Me and Tupac were soldiers of the same
You lames huddle, your team's shook
Y'all feel the wrath of a killer, 'cause this is my football
Throwin' passes a barrel, shoulder pads apparel
But the Q.B. don't stand for no
Every word is a sawed-off blast, 'cause y'all all soft
And I'm the black hearse that came to y'all ass in
It's for the hood by the store
try, many die, come at Nas if you want a war, get it bloody, uh

Yo, I'm the N the A to the
And If I wasn't, I been Escobar
You know the kid got his chipped tooth
Hair with a barber's preciseness, Bravehearted for life
It's the return of the Golden Child, son of a blue's
So who are you playa? Y'all awaited the true
Puffin' tropical, cups of that Vodka too
Papi chu', tore up, up in a hospital
Throw up? Never, 'member I do this through righteous
You Judists thought I was gone, so in light of my
Y'all been all happy-go-lucky, bunch of
me "God's Son", with my pants low
I die slow, put them rags up like Petey Pablo
This is Nasdaq dough, in my Nascar with this Nas
Flip the beat back, now it's all
Hit the record sto', never let me go, get my collection, yo

It's, the, return of the Prince, the
This is real hardcore, Kid and Limp Bizkit's soft
Sip Cris', get chips, wrist gliss, I
Stick shift, sick up in that Boxter Porsche
With the top cut off, rich kids go and cop The
They don't about the blocks I'm on
And everybody want to know where the kid go? he rest at?
Where he at and dress at?
Know he got dough, where does he live? Is he in the bridge?
Does he really know how ill he is?
Got all of y'all my moves, my watch and my jewels
Hop in my coupe, dodge interviews that
It's not my jewels, ice anything, plenty chains
Look at my tennis shoes, I iced
Who am I? The back-twister,
Automatic leg-spreader, brain-getter
Keepin' it wit' ya, uh

x2]