Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Nasty , by - Nas. Release date: 31.12.2011
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Nasty |
| Word |
| Got some Remy Martin, some good-ass cigars |
| Check it out |
| Ayo, late night, candlelight, fiend wit' diesel in his needle |
| Queensbridge leader, no equal, I come from the Wheel of Ezekiel |
| To pop thousand-dollar bottles of scotch, smoke purp, and heal the people |
| Any rebuttal to what I utter get box-cuttered |
| Count how many bad honeys I slut, it’s a high number |
| Name a nigga under the same sky that I’m under |
| Who gets money, remain fly, yeah, I wonder |
| Eyes flutter as love when Nas pops up |
| Stars get starstruck, panties start drippin' |
| The ways of Carlito, blaze, torpedo cigars |
| Drop moves, drop clothes |
| Louis the XIII freaks, women nice size |
| I ride like Porsches, thick, brown and gorgeous |
| It ain’t my fault, semiautomatic weapons |
| I brought the world «Crazy,» I’m rich and I’m girl-crazy |
| Dick ‘em, convince ‘em all to praise me |
| They ideology is confusion, I lose ‘em |
| Fellates me, who hate me? |
| My gun off safety |
| Since a Tunnel escape key, my jewelry in HD |
| Silent rage, pristine in my vintage shades |
| I’m not in the winters of my life or the beginner stage, I am the dragon |
| Maserati, pumpin' Biggie, the great legend |
| Blastin', I’m after the actress who played Faith Evans |
| My little Jackie Onassis, dig? |
| I’m so high, I never land like Mike Jackson’s crib |
| Best on .45, still crack ya rib sacrilege |
| When lids talk trash about the nasty kid |
| Past nasty now, I’m gross and repulsive |
| Talk money, is you jokin'? |
| Cash everywhere, in my bank, in the sofa |
| In the walls, in the cars, in my wallet, in my pocket |
| On the floors, ceiling, the safe, bitch |
| I got all you envy, but don’t offend |
| I’m skinny, but still I’m too big for a Bentley |
| You are your car, what could represent? |
| Too Godly to be a Bugatti, you honestly |
| Must design me somethin' Tommy Mottonic from Queens had before the '90s |
| Drug dealer call, rush to the bar |
| Move, niggas, we don’t give a fuck who you are |
| Black card heavy like a magnet, in my stitched denims |
| Pretty women see them them saggin' |
| Bet a hundred stacks, niggas’ll run it back |
| Just havin' fun, I ain’t even begun to black |
| Light another blunt in fact |
| (Nasty) |
| Nasty kid |
| (Nasty) |
| Yeah |
| (Nasty) |
| The kid! |
| (Nasty) |
| Nasty kid |
| For the hustlers, thick as yellow bitches for the suck of it |
| Got a bunch of niggas in prison braggin', sayin' «It was Nas I used to hustle |
| wit'» |
| I display fashions while my lungs engage hashes, guns on my waist past his |
| Since I’m cakin' up, put funds in my safe, laughin' |
| And joining the niggas passin' you niggas was straight assin' |
| Excuse the vulgarity, I’m still not fully adjusted |
| Or used to the new fans hearin' me spit rapidly |
| I never see the whips niggas be claimin' they drivin' |
| I guess entertainment means blatantly lyin' |
| Fake it 'til you make it, I’ve driven those toys |
| Been in the wars, in the streets, cops kickin' in doors |
| For my deen niggas, your flow cheap as limousine liquor |
| I’m no fake rap CD listener, sit back and roll a mean swisher |
| For my Gs, tell these clowns make room for the king, nigga |