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"Woke up this mornin', you got yourself a gun, you got yourself a gun"

Yo, I'm living in this time behind enemy lines
So I got mine, I hope you ("got yourself a gun")
You from the hood? I hope you ("got yourself a gun")
You want beef? I hope you ("got yourself a gun")
And when I see you I'mma take what I want
So you tried to front, hope you ("got yourself a gun")
You ain't real, hope you ("got yourself a gun")
My first album had no famous guest appearances
The outcome: I'm was crowned the best lyricist
Many years on this professional level
Why would you question who's better, the world is still mine
Tattoo's 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 2Pac were soldiers of the same struggle
You lames a huddle, your teams shook y'all feel
The wrath of a killer, cause this is my football field
Throwing 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
I got mine, I hope you ("got yourself a gun")
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 blues player
So who are you, player? Y'all awaited the true savior
Puffing 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 Judas 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, though, in my Nascar
With this Nas flow, what 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, the boss
This is real hardcore, Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit soft
Sip Cris, get chips, wrist gliss I floss
Stick-shift look sick up in that Boxster 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
Keeping it gangsta with ya'
("got yourself a gun")