Art of Words: No Idea’s Original

If niggaz could look inside my mind, you’ll find where bodies are buried. First, look past the hotties who dimes. Go to the center, enter with caution, past the braincell graveyard where weed’s responsible for memory loss. Let’s witness, the horrific, the stench’ll make you nauseous. See what I seen every day. I live with this torture. Lightin’ spliffs up to stay high like 24 hours. Sleep with my heat, wash with my gun in the shower. My tongue is power, it thrills women, kills demons. Long as I’m still breathin I’m still winnin, I’ll teach ’em. The hood converted from trey bags to 20’s of girl. Everybody had money, every summer was real ill. Four-finger rings, dope dealers, ‘caine/Kane “No Half Steppin'” with flat tops when Rakim reigned. Radios on card tables, Benetton, the gods buildin’. Ask for today’s mathematics, we Allah’s children. And this was goin on in every New York ghetto. Kids listened. Five Percenters said it’s pork in Jell-o. We coincide, we in the same life. Maybe a time difference. On a different coast, but we share the same sunlight. Your part of the world, might be like colors and gangs. While on my side, brothers’ll murder for different things. But it all revolve around drugs, fame and shorties. Stuck for your bling, stripped for your chain, the same story. From, Czechoslovakia to Texas metropolis…Them, treacherous rocksters in the Mexican mafias be scrappin with tats on they back, violent wars. Nothin’ less than a lethal injection if ever caught. Courtrooms, eagles and flags, American style. While in our world, the ghetto stays incredibly foul. Watchin’ for paint chips, don’t want no led in yo’ child. But them gangstas put lead in yo’ child…

— Nas


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