Got Yourself A Gun Lyrics

Woke up this morning [yea]
Ya Got Yourself a Gun [yea yea yea]
Got Yourself a Gun

Yo Im living in this time behind enemy lines so

I got mine, I hope ya (got yourself a gun)
You from the hood I hope ya (got yourself a gun)
You want beef hope ya (got yourself a gun)
And when I see you Im a take what I want so,
You try to front hope ya (got yourself a gun)
You ain't real hope ya (got yourself a gun)

My first album had no famous guest appearances
The outcome, Im crowned the best lyricist
Many years on this professional level
What would you question whose better
The World is still mine
Tattoos real with Gods son across the belly
The boss of rap he saw me in Belly with thoughts like that
They take it back to Africa, I did it with Biggie
Me and Tupac were soldiers of the same struggle
You lanced a huddle you came shooked
Y'all feel the rap of a killer
Cause this is my football field
Throwing passes from a barrel
Shoulder pads apparel
But the QB don't stand for no quarterback
Every word is like a sawed off blast
Cause y'all soft and Im the black hurst
That came to hall y'all ass in
This for the hood by the corner store
Many try, many die
Come at Nas if you wanna war get it bloody


Yo Im the "N" the "A" to the "S" "I" "R"
And if I wasn't I must've been escabar
You know the kid got his chipped tooth fixed
Hair parted with the barbers preciseness
Brave hearted for life is return of the golden child
Son of a blues player so who are you playa
Ya waited the truth saviour
Puffin that tropical, cups of that vodka too
Poppy choose to' up to wake up in a hospital
Throw up never, 'member I do this through righteous steps
You Judas thought I was gone so when Ima light up my death
Ya been all happy, go lucky bunch of
Samboos call me godson with my pants low
I don't die slow put them rags up like Petey Pablo
This is NASDAQ dough in my Nas car with this Nas flow
Who could beat that not a soul reppin
Hit the record store never let me go
Get my whole collection, Yo


It's the return of the prince to bars
This is real hardcore
Kid Rock and Limp Bizkits soft
Sip Chris get chicks risks wrists I floss
Stick shift look stick up in that box that Porsche
With the top cut off rich kids goin cop the source
They all know about the blocks Im on
And everybody wanna know where the kid go
Where he rest at, where he shop at, and dress at
You know we got dough, where does he live
Is he still in the bridge, does he really know how ill he is?
Got all of ya watching my moves, my watch, and my jewels
Hop in ma coop, dodge interviews like that
Its not only ma jewels, ice anything plenty chains
Look at my tennis shoes are iced at
Who am I, the back twister, lingerie ripper
Automatic leg spreader put the brain getter
Keepin it gangsta widja

Got Yourself a Gun

Songwriter(s): Dorsey Wesley
Copyright: Dors-d Music, Universal Music Corp.
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