Songtexte Disciple - Clean Album Version - Nas

2004, yeah
L, what's up?
Prophesy!
Yeah, it's prophesy, baby!

Disciple, disciple (what?) Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (let's go!)

Word to mama, any lineup of rhymers
Could bring any drama, anytime, the city's mine, Nas is like
Love Undying, Money's My Bitches, Thugz Mansion
Thugs dancin' around the fly sh-
Pharaoh garment's Prada, Egyptian camelback-riders
Pyramid architects, Perignon bottles
Money, jewelry, want me, then, come get me
Hit me but don't miss me, you history
Lead flowin' around like a Frisbee, Italian dons from Sicily kiss me

This ain't 50, this ain't Jigga, this ain't Diddy, this ain't Pretty
Pain, power, p-, and pistols
Lyrically no one, hold none near me, hear me
Kids cheer me like The Count of Monte-Cristo
Steady poundin' soundin' like G without the lisp, though
My big bro told me plain and simple, "Nas, do not look back"
Watch where you took rap, no bookbags and trucker hats
Just army jacks and diamonds that's flashin'
What the f- is that? Freestyle

Disciple, disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (Esco!)

Like Paul, Michael, and Matthew, Peter, James, and Andrew
Phillip, Simon, and Judas, I'm disciple of music
Street beats is the main thing, minus the traitor
And I'm not a dictator, I'm the righteous invitin' you haters
Inside the life of the greatest, it'll take you through something real
Get a smack in your face, 'cause I hurt up, traumatize, ilama
Bust shells, destroy, yet tryna prevent violence
If I present iron, somebody dyin', don't even worry 'bout it

Then, dress warm for the cemetery climate
When I speak, I need cemetery silence, terror
See me, gold Hummers, Lamborghini's, man who stole the summer
Hand straight gleamin', if I don't know you, toe-tag you
Drag you through the cement, fo-fo maggie
Body parts in my man's Maserati car, then, party hard in Madagascar
While Rigor Mortis'll grab ya, him retarded, I'm pass that

Gloves on, where the mask at? Too many love songs
All the thugs gone, what happened? Where's the passion?
Rappers battlin' non-rappers, carryin' on backwards
Laughin' sayin', "Nas thinks he's Farrakhan preachin' blackness"
Hell, yeah, awareness is my alias
Word to the Braveheart written on my bare chest
The realest, here it is!

Disciple, disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)

Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (streets)
Disciple (Esco!)