Lyrics: On The Real

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?
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 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