Right...

Check me out y'all, Nasty Nas in your area
About to cause mass hysteria

Before a blunt, I take out my fronts
Then I start to front, matter of fact, I be on a manhunt
You couldn't catch me in the streets without a ton of reefer
That's like Malcolm X catching the Jungle Fever
King poetic, too much flavour, I'm major
Atlanta ain't braver, I pull a number like a pager
Cuz I'mma ace when I face the bass
40 side is the place that is giving me grace
Now wait, another dose and you might be dead
And I'm a Nike head, I wear chains that excite the feds
And ain't a damn thing gonna change
I'm a performer strange, so the mic warmer was born to gain
Nas, why did you do it
You know you got the mad fat fluid when you rhyme, it's halftime

Right...
It's halftime...

It's like that, you know it's like that
I got it hemmed, now you never get the mic back
When I attack, there ain't an army that could strike back
So I react never calmly on a hype track
I set it off with my own rhyme
Cuz I'm as ill as a convict who kills for phone time
I'm max like cassettes, I flex like sex
In ya, stereo sets, Nas will catch wreck
I used to hustle, now all I do is relax and strive
When I was young, I was a fan of the Jackson 5
I drop jewels, wear jewels, hope to never run it
Wit more kicks than a baby in a mother's stomach
Nasty Nas has to rise, cause I'm wise
This is exercise till the microphone dies
Back in '83, I was an MC sparking
But I was too scared to grab the mics in the park and
Kick my little raps cuz I thought niggaz wouldn't understand
And now on every jam I'm the fucking man
I rap in front of more niggaz than in the slave ships
I used to watch C.H.I.P.S, now I load glock clips
I got to have it, I miss Mr Magic
Versatile, my style switches like a faggot
But not bisexual, I'm an intellectual
With rap, I'm a professional and that's no question, yo
These are the lyrics of the man, you can't near it, understand
Cuz in the streets, I'm well known like the number man
Am I in place with the bass and format?
Explore rap and tell me Nas ain't all that
And next time I rhyme I'll be foul, whenever I freestyle
I see trial niggaz say I'm wow
I hate a rhymebiter's rhyme
Stay tuned, I assume the real rap comes at halftime

Right...
It's halftime

I got it going on, even flip them on his song
Every afternoon, I kick half the tune
And in the darkness, I'm heartless like when the narcs hit
Word to Marcus Garvey I hardly sparked it
Cuz when I blast the herb, that's my word
I be slaying them fast, doing this, that and the third
But chill, pass the Andre and let's lay
I bag bitches up at John Jay and hit a matinee
Putting hits on 5-0
Cuz when it's my time to go, I wait for God wit the fo-fo And biters can't come near
And you'll go to hell to the foul cop who shot Garcia
I won't plant seeds, don't need an extra mouth I can't feed
That's extra Phillie change, more cash for damp weed
This goes out to Manhattan, the Island of Staten
Brooklyn, Queens is living fat and
The Boogie Down, enough props, enough clout
Ill will, rest in peace, yo, I'm out

Right...
It's still halftime