Lirik Lagu Hustlers - Nas
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(feat. The Game)
[Nas]Dre, he a Compton-Compton O.G.Nas, he a QB-QB true GDo the history
Way before The Firm, like back in the dayNas was the first New York nigga rappin' with DreSo of course I got a track to bring it back to your faceThe one kid that would've been Aftermath that got awayBut we still get together like every several yearsto sprinkle, a little bit of Heaven for your earsRelax sippin' Calico in Rio, stupid fuckersLow-key, know G's, but it's still Gucci luggageI love Cape Cod, and watchin' fly bitches with grey eyeswrestle in a tub of KY to get my day byI like to celebrate, why? - 'cause I can visioncollages and images of my lies with no regret to hateSo every breath I take, is all about the rulesIt's hard for you to breathe like you at high altitudeSo crack the Patron, it's on heathens, The God's backHard body, Mr. Jones never leavin'
[Chorus #1]Hustlers, dealers, drop-top ridersMake that cake, cop two five fiversPimps and players, platinum diamondsEast to West Coast we riders
[Chorus #2: Nas (The Game)]He a Compton-Compton O.G.(Mix that with a QB-QB true G)(What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks(West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[The Game]1995, eleven years from the dayI'm in the record shop with choices to make"Illmatic" on the top shelf, "The Chronic" on the left homieWanna cop both but only got a twenty on meSo fuck it, I stole both, spent the twenty on a dub sackRipped the package off "Illmatic" and bumped thatFor my niggaz it was too complex when Nas rhymedI was the only Compton nigga with a "New York State of Mind"Inside the dope house bottlin' up sherm, bangin' The FirmDre was king then so I waited my turnFast forward, now I'm makin 'em burnEnded my peers careers, hollered at Nas, a hard lesson was learnedSo I reconciled my differences like he did with JiggaI stopped beefin' with niggaz, 'cause I'm "Ether" to niggazComb the earth 'til there's no one left"If I Ruled the World" I summons all you weak rap niggaz to death
[Chorus: Nas (The Game)]He a Compton-Compton O.G.(Mix that with a QB-QB true G)(What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks(West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[Nas]Yo, the Jordans sportin'Come off the dice game with a fortune walkin', you a walkin' coffin'The musket I tucked it, you bluff it I bust itYou're sideways talkin', so I lay oftenI wait patient, to duct tape hatin'Fuck ass niggaz, get bucked ass niggazPluck ashes - of Cuban cigars, you foolin' with NasThat's my name and I came with Rugers this timeAnd if I'm sane that "Soul Plane" movie's the bombWord to my mom's name tattooed to my armYou can't revolve me, embalm me, calm me or harm meRob me or dodge these bullets I'm bustin'See that's malarky you yappin'I open up the tripod to put the gatling on, and I start clappin'Nasty man, from baggin' grams and runnin' from copsto a mill' on the hand, a mill' on the watch, I'm fuckin' with Doc
[Chorus #1]Hustlers, dealers, drop-top ridersMake that cake, cop two five fiversPimps and players, platinum diamondsEast to West Coast we ridin'
[Chorus #2: Nas (The Game)]He a Compton-Compton O.G.(Mix that with a QB-QB true G)(What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks(West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[Nas]Dre, he a Compton-Compton O.G.Nas, he a QB-QB true GDo the history
Way before The Firm, like back in the dayNas was the first New York nigga rappin' with DreSo of course I got a track to bring it back to your faceThe one kid that would've been Aftermath that got awayBut we still get together like every several yearsto sprinkle, a little bit of Heaven for your earsRelax sippin' Calico in Rio, stupid fuckersLow-key, know G's, but it's still Gucci luggageI love Cape Cod, and watchin' fly bitches with grey eyeswrestle in a tub of KY to get my day byI like to celebrate, why? - 'cause I can visioncollages and images of my lies with no regret to hateSo every breath I take, is all about the rulesIt's hard for you to breathe like you at high altitudeSo crack the Patron, it's on heathens, The God's backHard body, Mr. Jones never leavin'
[Chorus #1]Hustlers, dealers, drop-top ridersMake that cake, cop two five fiversPimps and players, platinum diamondsEast to West Coast we riders
[Chorus #2: Nas (The Game)]He a Compton-Compton O.G.(Mix that with a QB-QB true G)(What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks(West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[The Game]1995, eleven years from the dayI'm in the record shop with choices to make"Illmatic" on the top shelf, "The Chronic" on the left homieWanna cop both but only got a twenty on meSo fuck it, I stole both, spent the twenty on a dub sackRipped the package off "Illmatic" and bumped thatFor my niggaz it was too complex when Nas rhymedI was the only Compton nigga with a "New York State of Mind"Inside the dope house bottlin' up sherm, bangin' The FirmDre was king then so I waited my turnFast forward, now I'm makin 'em burnEnded my peers careers, hollered at Nas, a hard lesson was learnedSo I reconciled my differences like he did with JiggaI stopped beefin' with niggaz, 'cause I'm "Ether" to niggazComb the earth 'til there's no one left"If I Ruled the World" I summons all you weak rap niggaz to death
[Chorus: Nas (The Game)]He a Compton-Compton O.G.(Mix that with a QB-QB true G)(What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks(West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
[Nas]Yo, the Jordans sportin'Come off the dice game with a fortune walkin', you a walkin' coffin'The musket I tucked it, you bluff it I bust itYou're sideways talkin', so I lay oftenI wait patient, to duct tape hatin'Fuck ass niggaz, get bucked ass niggazPluck ashes - of Cuban cigars, you foolin' with NasThat's my name and I came with Rugers this timeAnd if I'm sane that "Soul Plane" movie's the bombWord to my mom's name tattooed to my armYou can't revolve me, embalm me, calm me or harm meRob me or dodge these bullets I'm bustin'See that's malarky you yappin'I open up the tripod to put the gatling on, and I start clappin'Nasty man, from baggin' grams and runnin' from copsto a mill' on the hand, a mill' on the watch, I'm fuckin' with Doc
[Chorus #1]Hustlers, dealers, drop-top ridersMake that cake, cop two five fiversPimps and players, platinum diamondsEast to West Coast we ridin'
[Chorus #2: Nas (The Game)]He a Compton-Compton O.G.(Mix that with a QB-QB true G)(What you got's) A concoction of some different ghetto blocks(West Coast kill the tracks) East Coast gunshots
