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 time behind enemy lines so

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

My, first album had no guest appearances
The outcome: I'm the best lyricist
Many on this professional level
Why would you who's better? The world is still mine
real 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, this is my football field
Throwin' passes from a barrel, shoulder apparel
But the Q.B. don't for no quarterback
word is like a sawed-off blast, 'cause y'all all soft
And I'm the hearse that came to haul y'all ass in
for the hood by the corner store
Many try, many die, come at Nas if you a war, get it bloody, uh

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

It's, the, of the Prince, the boss
This is real hardcore, Kid and Limp Bizkit's soft
Sip Cris', get chips, gliss, I floss
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 still in the
Does he know how ill that he is?
Got all of watchin' my moves, my watch and my jewels
Hop in my coupe, interviews like that
It's not only my jewels, ice anything, chains
Look at my tennis shoes, I that
Who am I? The back-twister,
Automatic leg-spreader, brain-getter
it gangsta wit' ya, uh

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