Nas, Olu Dara - Street's Disciple lyrics

Yeah, yeah, yeah
You was born in the eighties
Pops drove a Mercedes
Did a bid, coming home to some grown ass kid
Crack baby turn to young thug
Description might fit you
Look around it might hit you
No joke, I wanna pistol fight with you
Shit comes around faster than you think
Blood and white chalk makes pink
So what's that make you?
Become a creature of habitat, the average cat
Won't see where it's at, or where it's going
The hood wait's for no one
I've been through it from Ewings to Buicks
To body viewings
Car chases to court cases, to fly vacations
From wanting it all
To being the object of your admiration
Imagination is what they lack
It stops niggas from getting stacks
Feeling trapped on the block
With loose cracks
Wisdom is vital for the survival
Of the street's disciple

"From the day you were born"
(Olu Daru sample)
"Starring out, a young disciple" (Nas Sample)
"You had that gleam in your eye"
(Olu Daru sample) disciple of the projects!
"From the day you were born"
(Olu Daru sample)
"Street's Disciple" (Nas Sample)
"Disciple of the projects" (Olu Daru sample)

Moonstruck stuck
Slow as molasses in my actions
That's compliments of a fast spliff
In the night life
In my flight jacket, adrenaline heightened
Mimickin Tyson
After watchin him cut up Razor Ruddock
In the gutter
Which was once ghetto prophecy
Is now ghetto scripture lookin back at it
Blowjobs from pretty crack addicts
Older Gods wantin no static
Told some lil' niggas they can have it
Coke baggin and toe taggin
They took Will, let me describe him
A live one i think that he was the true
God's Son+ - not Jesus, but fearless
His ear was up on them sounds too
He'd hear somethin not to his likin
And say 'Son they bitin you"
He never got to see my debut, wild mannered
But wild with them hammers
Niggas frontin couldn't stand it
Took him off the planet, left us in 9-2
With the philosophy of what arms do
A true street's disciple

Plug the mics up, I'm ready to rock, knocking
Reminiscing of measuring pots of Pyrex
Cook in the kitchen
Captain Hook to these infants
It's like my folks is still on the benches
Surrounded by villains and henchmen
Was a killer convention
1991, son, gold fronts on the facial
Gun buck by the naval
Disciple could blaze you
We laced it with embalming fluid
Rhyming to music all this time
Fighting 'bout how Kane and Rakim would do it
Seemed impossible to us that
We could ever leave from the block
Where the world was forever freezing
Hell if I ever let them shovel me, son
In this cell again
Fuck these devil policemen, plush leathers
I need them
Risking my freedom, burners in bubble coats
Fuck a sermon from the neighborhood pope
He's sexing ho's, old fart
He's busting ones when he stroke
Multi-colored Pelle Pelle's
Young stretch mark bellies
Babies born in a cycle, future disciples