[Nas] Dre, he a Compton-Compton O.G. Nas, he a QB-QB true G Do the history
Way before The Firm, like back in the day Nas was the first New York nigga rappin' with Dre So of course I got a track to bring it back to your face The one kid that would've been Aftermath that got away But we still get together like every several years to sprinkle, a little bit of Heaven for your ears Relax sippin' Calico in Rio, stupid fuckers Low-key, know G's, but it's still Gucci luggage I love Cape Cod, and watchin' fly bitches with grey eyes wrestle in a tub of KY to get my day by I like to celebrate, why? - 'cause I can vision collages and images of my lies with no regret to hate So every breath I take, is all about the rules It's hard for you to breathe like you at high altitude So crack the Patron, it's on heathens, The God's back Hard body, Mr. Jones never leavin'
[Chorus #1] Hustlers, dealers, drop-top riders Make that cake, cop two five fivers Pimps and players, platinum diamonds East to West Coast we riders
[Chorus #2: Nas (The Game)] He a Compton-Compton O.G. (Mix that with a QB-QB true G) (What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks (West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[The Game] 1995, eleven years from the day I'm in the record shop with choices to make "Illmatic" on the top shelf, "The Chronic" on the left homie Wanna cop both but only got a twenty on me So fuck it, I stole both, spent the twenty on a dub sack Ripped the package off "Illmatic" and bumped that For my niggaz it was too complex when Nas rhymed I was the only Compton nigga with a "New York State of Mind" Inside the dope house bottlin' up sherm, bangin' The Firm Dre was king then so I waited my turn Fast forward, now I'm makin 'em burn Ended my peers careers, hollered at Nas, a hard lesson was learned So I reconciled my differences like he did with Jigga I stopped beefin' with niggaz, 'cause I'm "Ether" to niggaz Comb the earth 'til there's no one left "If I Ruled the World" I summons all you weak rap niggaz to death
[Chorus: Nas (The Game)] He a Compton-Compton O.G. (Mix that with a QB-QB true G) (What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks (West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[Nas] Yo, the Jordans sportin' Come off the dice game with a fortune walkin', you a walkin' coffin' The musket I tucked it, you bluff it I bust it You're sideways talkin', so I lay often I wait patient, to duct tape hatin' Fuck ass niggaz, get bucked ass niggaz Pluck ashes - of Cuban cigars, you foolin' with Nas That's my name and I came with Rugers this time And if I'm sane that "Soul Plane" movie's the bomb Word to my mom's name tattooed to my arm You can't revolve me, embalm me, calm me or harm me Rob me or dodge these bullets I'm bustin' See that's malarky you yappin' I open up the tripod to put the gatling on, and I start clappin' Nasty man, from baggin' grams and runnin' from cops to a mill' on the hand, a mill' on the watch, I'm fuckin' with Doc
[Chorus #1] Hustlers, dealers, drop-top riders Make that cake, cop two five fivers Pimps and players, platinum diamonds East to West Coast we ridin'
[Chorus #2: Nas (The Game)] He a Compton-Compton O.G. (Mix that with a QB-QB true G) (What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks (West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
Lyrics contained within GoldLyrics.com subject to US Copyright Laws and are the property of their respective authors, artists and labels. If you like the lyrics, GoldLyrics.com encourages you to buy the CDs of the albums and whenever possible, GoldLyrics.com gives a link, where you can buy the album.
