Yeah yeah. On the.. On the.. On the. On the real, all you crab niggaz know the deal Finally up in this nigga Let's pay homage to Illmatic Let's put the crown where it's at 10 years Never been done this real by nobody To my seed, May I lead you into no greed or evil In the categories of stories I breed my sequel You know the money, blues, blunts, broken 22's Monkey see, Monkey do Shorty sipping sunny dew Now it's V.S.O.P. in a Phantom, mad smoky Murder trees, cruisin gat in the stash so it won't poke me Up in the Trump Plaza, Suite 3010, don't make no noise cause we dirty Tell them hoes hurry in We got the room lit up with perfume, and mad boom And there's video taping bloomin ass's on the zoomin lens Rollin on you nondescript niggaz You're marked for death like Colombians with bad coke that gyp niggaz Tilt the dutch, twisted up the uwee if you're skilled enough In Will we trust, salute the dead the nine mili busts That verse is 10 years old, 9½ years old Street's Disciple The Rebirth comin at you this year baby It's on baby Yeah To the hood, may this be the day that we pop them bottles This is mandatory, what if there's not tomorrow? You know the murder rate, jealousy, you heard 'em say He say, she say, I'm bout cheddar, he don't deserve to make Sippin clear liquor with niggaz, that talk sideways Listenin close, to every word in case they violate Up in the projects Apartment 5D Spark a lea' it's bout da reed, countin everything the block see We bout to need to take the corners from them cowards Get it on so y'all can move more coke powder, by the hour Hold in case we gotta rip niggaz Loaded - Teflon coated projectiles'll flip niggaz From ninth grade to lightweight to grams to my mans with guns in hand Police vans, they missed the summers again Yeah, power to the people Death to the phonies This beast to the mic 1 2 check Y'all fed-e-rallies on me And they look like you Approachin me like "How you, Homie?" The F.B.I. see only one problem, they try to slump me After the young black male cuz he makes a lot of money So hustlers make crack sales cuz they deprived and hungry My country hates that I could run free state to state with hunnies While makin cake with real golded plate rims on Hum-V's The bush stroker, the kush smoker, nigga Just when you thought it was over look over your shoulders I'm 30 now, baby sip drinks and sip 'em slow Motto no stress, smokin less than I did befo' You see the kid was broke till I spitted vivid expressions of hard livin Ghetto children, of a lesser god, religion was fast women, expensive cars Y'all witnessin over 10 years - THE BEST OF NAS
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