[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 lines So...
[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 want So, 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 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 Tattoos 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 Tupac were soldiers of the same struggle You lames should huddle, your team's shook Y'all feel the wrath of a killer, 'cause this is my football field Throwin' 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, uh
[Verse 2] Yo, 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 blue's player So who are you playa? Y'all awaited the true savior Puffin' 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 Judists 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 dough, in my Nascar with this Nas flow Flip the beat back, now it's all reppin' Hit the record sto', never let me go, get my whole collection, yo
[Verse 3] It's, the, return of the Prince, the boss This is real hardcore, Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit's soft Sip Cris', get chips, wrist gliss, I floss Stick shift, look sick up in that Boxter 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 watchin' 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 Keepin' it gangsta wit' ya, uh