Lyrics New York Times - J. Cole, 50 Cent, Bas

New York Times

This for all my niggas in the city
But this shit really for Queens though
Really for Queens though, ya know?
Big city of dreams, motivated by schemes
Getting money regiment with my get money regime
Nah mean?
yeah
New York times, come listen to these New York rhymes
A southern nigga with a New York mind
In the concrete jungle of Queens trying to be Kings
Getting to the money, it seems, by any means
As I, watch it all pan out, try not to stand out
Fish out of water, yet an official reporter
Up here, life is a bitch, I blow a kiss at her daughter
In the city where niggas will leave you shit outta order
So yeah, you heard the news, disturbing news
Shot a brother in the head, thank the lord he ain’t dead
Was in a coma for months, eyes ain’t opened them once
My nigga visibly stressing, a mess, he smoking his blunt
What could I say, I can’t relate to that, all I do is pray for that
This the city of God told me «Go and make it"at
I got a date with destiny, I’m running late for that
Grab a paper, hey kid, you gotta pay for that
The New York Times, yeah
The New York Times
Extra, extra, read all about it
They say you can win anywhere if you can win here
And you ain’t been no where if you ain’t been here
Hustle hard, yeah it really ain’t a game mane
Same places, different faces, on the train mane
New York, New York
Hop on the F train, took the express train
Skip that local shit, my vocals sick, that’s how success came
Once kings now we pawns in this chess game
Wall street got black slave blood stains
Which means, we built this city
And never got scraps while the devil got fat
In fact, reparations for niggas in desperation
Fuck money, get my kid a real education
Blood money spills, had a real revelation
Southside make you realize there’s still segregation
Don’t wanna preach I’m just thinking out loud
Sometimes I wanna save the world and I be thinking bout how
My motive, to lead my niggas to paradise
Imagine the world, free from pain
And we no longer scared at night
Far from the crime, the blind leading the blind
We don’t make it primetime till we dyin'
The New York Times
The New York Times, yeah
The New York Times
Extra, extra, read all about it
They say you can win anywhere if you can win here
And you ain’t been no where if you ain’t been here
Hustle hard, yeah it really ain’t a game mane
Same places, different faces, on the train mane
New York, New York
How I go from selling reefer and plates
Till eating steaks with Cole and playing FIFA with Drake
Should’ve been in the States, property of the Jakes
Now I’m plotting on profits and properties on the lake
Let me properly integrate you to it
Show you how the heads of states and gangsters do it
Them niggas talk a lot of shit but they ain’t been through it
I done been up in everything, cars you never seen
Cities you never heard of, from the streets where they murder
Police observe us till they reach the verdict
Kill 'em all, fucking kill 'em all
If you can’t send 'em to the pen, send 'em to the morgue
Send 'em to the Lord, fuck it, send his broad
Hundred shots through the dark but they never hit my heart
Nigga, bitch nigga, take a pause
Hundred shots through the dark you can never hit my heart
The New York Times
The New York Times, yeah
The New York Times
Extra, extra, read all about it
They say you can win anywhere if you can win here
And you ain’t been no where if you ain’t been here
Hustle hard, yeah it really ain’t a game mane
Same places, different faces, on the train mane
New York, New York