Westwood Classic Freestyle

Foreign cars
Three for Alize niggas deceased or behind bars
I rap divine gods check the prognosis, is it real or showbiz?
My window faces shootouts, drug overdoses
Live amongst no roses, only the drama, for real
A nickel-plate is my fate, my medicine is the ganja
Here's my basis, razor embraces, many faces
Your telephone blowing, black stitches or fat shoelaces
Peoples are petrol, dramatic automatic fo'-fo' I let blow
Back down po-po when I'm vexed so
My pen taps the paper then my brain's blank
I see dark streets, hustling brothers who keep the same rank

It goes on to the break of dawn, listening to words, knowledge, word is bond
It goes on to the break of dawn, listen to the words, and the knowledge

I keep a gem-star razor under my tongue and near my gums
When I'm not strapped blow just before you cock your Glock back
Touch your temple, leave you leaking, while I'm speaking
The shit that I be freaking, gives me papers, while I'm sleeping G
Walk around mega hard, like whatever God
You couldn't count how many niggas my bretta scarred
I light the marijuana smoke, and chicks
And posers that I'm smoking with
Couldn't take it, my ganja left emotionless
I leave your brain stuck
Giving hoes a plain fuck
They call me Nasty, but I'm not with the strange stuff
When I'm drunk, I stagger right and lyrics with a dagger
Next stabber catching reck, badder than a TEC would had of
Lefted struck, now whose next up
I murder, send me to San Quentin and I'm lynching niggas word up
A sing-sing, fuck is a hang, still is the same thing
No matter the cell block Nas will be named King
Slaughter drinking head rock
Forget water, peace to my niggas with my shit in ya tape recorder

It goes on, word is bond word is bond letting Nas Nas be born with Westwood
Yea

Pardon the curses, but just in the verses, when I
Was a kid, I used to blow up the churches
But now, I got older, snatching purses
Walking around, I'm a nervous reck
What the heck?
Don't disrespect
Cause if you do you might get hit with the TEC
Off the top of my head
Yes, I'm a blunthead
The F.I. F.B.I. want me dead
But yea I might stutter
When I'm still crazy butter
Doing whatever you want
I'm from the gutter
Queensbridge, where I live New York City
Where it comes by, and the girls look pretty
Like my man Malakai said
It goes on, word is bond 'til the end, my friend I wanna drive me a Benz
I swear and my motherfucking real name is Nasir yea
It goes on, like dat, it don't stop
I keep it real rocking that New York Hip Hop
Straight outta Queens, by all means
I chill with sess fiends, in Guess Jeans
Yes, yes, it's on