[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]