On The Real Lyrics - Nas

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 

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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? 

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 

Photos 

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 cuz he makes a lot of money 

So hustlers make crack sales cuz 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