Luyện nghe bài hát Got Ur Self A...

Woke up mornin', (yeah)
You got a gun (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Got a gun

Yo, I'm livin' in this time behind lines so

I got mine, I you (got yo'self a gun)
You the hood I hope you (got yo'self a gun)
You want I hope ya (got yo'self a gun)
And I see you I'ma take what I want
So, you tried to front, hope ya (got a gun)
You ain't real, ya (got yo'self a gun)

My, first album had no famous guest
The outcome: I'm the best lyricist
Many years on this level
Why would you question who's better? The is still mine
real with "God's Son" across the belly
The boss of rap, you saw me in "Belly" with thoughts that
To take it back to Africa, I did it with
Me and Tupac were soldiers of the struggle
You lames should huddle, your shook
Y'all feel the wrath of a killer, this is my football field
Throwin' passes a barrel, shoulder pads apparel
But the Q.B. don't stand for no
word is like a sawed-off blast, 'cause y'all all soft
And I'm the black hearse that came to haul ass in
It's for the hood by the corner
try, many die, come at Nas if you want a war, get it bloody, uh

Yo, I'm the N the A to the
And If I wasn't, I must've Escobar
You the kid got his chipped tooth fixed
Hair parted with a barber's preciseness, Bravehearted for
the return of the Golden Child, son of a blue's player
So who are you playa? Y'all awaited the true
that tropical, cups of that Vodka too
Papi chu', tore up, up in a hospital
Throw up? Never, 'member I do this righteous steps
You Judists thought I was gone, so in of my death
Y'all been all happy-go-lucky, bunch of
Call me "God's Son", with my low
I don't die slow, put them rags up like Petey
This is dough, in my Nascar with this Nas flow
Flip the back, now it's all reppin'
Hit the sto', never let me go, get my whole collection, yo

It's, the, return of the Prince, the
This is real hardcore, Kid and Limp Bizkit's soft
Sip Cris', get chips, wrist gliss, I
Stick shift, look sick up in that Porsche
With the top cut off, rich go and cop The Source
They know about the blocks I'm on
And everybody to know where the kid go? Where he rest at?
Where he at and dress at?
Know he got dough, where does he live? Is he still in the
Does he really know how ill he is?
Got all of watchin' my moves, my watch and my jewels
Hop in my coupe, interviews like that
It's not only my jewels, ice anything, plenty
at my tennis shoes, I iced that
Who am I? The back-twister,
Automatic leg-spreader, quicker
Keepin' it gangsta ya, uh

x2]