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Nas

Nas

 

Nas Bio - Nas Pictures - Nas Lyrics

Nas Bio

From:   Queensbridge Projects in New York City,

Nas got his start rhyming with  "Street's disciple/My rhymes are trifle/I shoot slugs from my brain just like a rifle.... When I lift and rhyme/Rappin' sniper, speaking real words/My thoughts react like Steven Spielberg's/Poetry attacks, paragraphs punch hard/My brain is insane/I'm out to lunch, god/Science is dropped/My raps are toxic/My voice pops, locks and excels like a rocket." 

Nas Bio
Nas Bio

Nas Pictures
Nas Pictures

When Nas' third album, "I Am?" was released in April 1999, the record debuted at #1 on the Billboard 200 with first week's sales in excess of 470,000 copies. I Am? has since been certified gold and platinum by the RIAA, bringing Nas's total of gold, platinum, and multi-platinum certifications up to seven (illmatic: gold; It Was Written: gold, platinum, 2x platinum; "Street Dreams": gold). I Am? kicked out the hit singles "Nas Is Like" and "Hate Me Now." Nas told us before: his architect pleases. Whether listeners favor gutbucket hip-hop nastiness (typical of his Nasty Nas persona) or glossier, flossier grooves (last year, Nas co-wrote and starred in "Belly," from filmmaker Hype Williams, the progenitor of visually slick hip-hop), the connecting thread is the Word. Nas tailors his words for the occasion (i.e. ghostwriting for Grammy-winning labelmate Will Smith), and they're always consistently amazing. Nastradamus is the latest chapter in the on-going chronicles of rap's leading visionary. Bio Courtesy of Columbia Records

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Nas Lyrics

Nas Lyrics

Got Ur Self A Gun
[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

[Chorus]

[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

[Chorus]

[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

[Chorus 2x]

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