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Westwood Classic Freestyle Lyrics - Artist : Nas
Foreign cars
Three for Alize niggas deceased or behind bars I rap divine gods check the prognosis, is it real or showbiz? My window faces shootouts, drug overdoses Live amongst no roses, only the drama, for real A nickel-plate is my fate, my medicine is the ganja Here's my basis, razor embraces, many faces Your telephone blowing, black stitches or fat shoelaces Peoples are petrol, dramatic automatic fo'-fo' I let blow Back down po-po when I'm vexed so My pen taps the paper then my brain's blank I see dark streets, hustling brothers who keep the same rank It goes on to the break of dawn, listening to words, knowledge, word is bond It goes on to the break of dawn, listen to the words, and the knowledge I keep a gem-star razor under my tongue and near my gums When I'm not strapped blow just before you cock your Glock back Touch your temple, leave you leaking, while I'm speaking The shit that I be freaking, gives me papers, while I'm sleeping G Walk around mega hard, like whatever God You couldn't count how many niggas my bretta scarred I light the marijuana smoke, and chicks And posers that I'm smoking with Couldn't take it, my ganja left emotionless I leave your brain stuck Giving hoes a plain fuck They call me Nasty, but I'm not with the strange stuff When I'm drunk, I stagger right and lyrics with a dagger Next stabber catching reck, badder than a TEC would had of Lefted struck, now whose next up I murder, send me to San Quentin and I'm lynching niggas word up A sing-sing, fuck is a hang, still is the same thing No matter the cell block Nas will be named King Slaughter drinking head rock Forget water, peace to my niggas with my shit in ya tape recorder It goes on, word is bond word is bond letting Nas Nas be born with Westwood Yea Pardon the curses, but just in the verses, when I Was a kid, I used to blow up the churches But now, I got older, snatching purses Walking around, I'm a nervous reck What the heck? Don't disrespect Cause if you do you might get hit with the TEC Off the top of my head Yes, I'm a blunthead The F.I. F.B.I. want me dead But yea I might stutter When I'm still crazy butter Doing whatever you want I'm from the gutter Queensbridge, where I live New York City Where it comes by, and the girls look pretty Like my man Malakai said It goes on, word is bond 'til the end, my friend I wanna drive me a Benz I swear and my motherfucking real name is Nasir yea It goes on, like dat, it don't stop I keep it real rocking that New York Hip Hop Straight outta Queens, by all means I chill with sess fiends, in Guess Jeans Yes, yes, it's on |
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