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Artist: Nas |
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Album: God's Son |
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Song: Get Down |
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"Get-get.. get down!" - James Brown |
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Uh.. uh.. uh.. |
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New York streets where killers'll walk like Pistol Pete |
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And Pappy Mason, gave the young boys admiration |
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Prince from Queens and Fritz from Harlem |
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Street legends, the drugs kept the hood from starvin |
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Pushin cars, Nicky Barnes was the 70's |
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But there's a long list of high-profile celebrities |
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Worldwide on the thorough side of things |
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Livest kings, some died, one guy, one time |
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one day grabs me, as I'm about to blast heat |
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40-side of Vernon, I turned well he asked me |
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"Whatchu up to, the cops gon' bust you" |
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I was a teen drunk off brew, stumbled I wondered |
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if God sent him, cause two squad cars entered the block |
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and looked at us, I ain't flinch when they watched |
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I took it upstairs, the bathroom mirror, brushed my hair |
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Starin at a young disciple, I almost gave my life to what the dice do |
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Yeah man, throwin them bones |
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Hopin my ace get his case thrown |
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His girl ain't wait for him, she in the world straight hoein |
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While he lookin at centerfolds of pretty girls |
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showin they little cooch, gangstas don't die he's livin proof |
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The D.A. who tried him was lyin |
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A white dude, killed his mother durin the case |
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Hung jury, now the D.A. is bein replaced |
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Pre-trial hearin is over, it's real for the soldier |
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Walks in the courtroom, the look in his eyes is wild |
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Triple-homicide, I sit in the back aisle |
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I wanna crack a smile when I see him |
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Throw up a fist for black power, cause all we want is his freedom |
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He grabbed a court officer's gun and started squeezin |
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Then he grabbed the judge, screams out -- nobody leavin everybody |
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"Get down, get down! Get down, get down!" - James Brown |
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Everybody |
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"Get down, get down! Get down, get down!" - James Brown |
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Some niggaz fuck they enemies in they ass when they catch 'em |
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Weird-ass niggaz are dangerous, so don't test 'em |
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They make you, dissapear, this a year that I won't forget |
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Sold CD's double platinum, met mo' execs |
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Southern niggaz, independent label, real killers |
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Know the business, ran Tennessee for years, now they chillin |
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They had the coke game somethin crazy |
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Sold music out the trunk of they car, that shit amazed me |
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Put me onto heron blunts, sherm or somethin |
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Took a puff, what the fuck, I turned to punch them |
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Southern niggaz ain't slow, nigga tried to play me |
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I left from around them dudes, they cool but they crazy |
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Now I'm back around the old school that raised me |
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New York gangstas, we loungin, out in L.A. see |
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A dude wrote my dawg from Pelican Bay |
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The letter say, "Nas I got your back - the fools don't play" |
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I rolled with some Crips down to a Crenshaw funeral |
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Never saw so many men slaughtered and I knew the ho responsible |
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The nigga still alive in a hospital |
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Midnight they crept in his room and shot the doctor too |
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See my cousin's in the game, thuggin and things |
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He plugged me with a dame who was half-Mexicano |
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Gave the ass up, I'ma mack daddy Soprano |
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She passed me the indigo, but the imbecile |
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shoulda never tippy-toed, thought my eyes were closed |
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Openin the hotel room do', to let her goons in |
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But I moved in a manner, on some Jet Li shit |
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I let the hammers blow, wet three kids |
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See honey thought I had somethin to do, with all the drama |
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Cause I was with a crew, that had her people killed |
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Called up my cousin, told him I ain't fuckin witchu |
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He responded cool, but told me out here this how motherfuckers |
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"Get down, get down! Get down, get down!" - James Brown |
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Everybody |
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"Get down, get down! Get down, get down!" - James Brown |
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All I really gotta say is that |
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if that's how our people gon' get down, how we ever gon' get up? |
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How we ever gon' get up if that's how we get down? |
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A shame when you ain't look at it |
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My folk is yo' folk, but we all kinfolk |
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Somebody gotta make a change |
