On The Real Lyrics

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?
Nas - On The Real - http://motolyrics.com/nas/on-the-real-lyrics.html
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 'cause he makes a lot of money

So hustlers make crack sales 'cause 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