Where Ya'll At Lyrics

from Hip Hop Is Dead

"Where Ya'll At" is track #1 on the album Hip Hop Is Dead. It was written by Remi, Salaam / Rudolph, Richard / Stepney, Charles / Jones, Nasir.
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"Where Ya'll At" is track #1 on the album Hip Hop Is Dead. It was written by Remi, Salaam / Rudolph, Richard / Stepney, Charles / Jones, Nasir.
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[Chorus]
Where them gangsters at?
Where them dumbs at?
Where where them gangsters at?
Where them dumbs at?

Where them gangsters at?
Where them dumbs at?
Where where them gangsters at?
Where them dumbs at?

Where them gangsters at?
Where them dumbs at?
Where where them gangsters at?
Where them dumbs at?

Where them dumbs at?
Where them dumbs at?
Where where them dumbs at?
Where where them dumbs at?

[Nas]
I slow dance with the Devil
Snow setting in the bezzle
Mo' sipping, phantom bumping Aaron Neville
Polo black scented, eyes squinted
Air Force One's, with my own patent in it
Fresher than a star, glowing up in the galaxy
Pagan holidays, are way far from my reality
Far through Evisu jeans, lethal green
Oliver peoples shades when I creep through Queens
With no AKs, I'm the ambassador
Robin Hood in the Aston Mart.
Lotta blood gonna splash in war
Task force homicide, federalies gonna arrest
But y'all ain't never seen nothing
Not a word not a hint, on the kid from the Project Bench
That went Sony-BMG, to that new conglomerate
Island Def Jam, guess how many dollars was spent
To get the best man, yall niggaz ain't silencing shit
Ya bench been wanna police the dick
The big Benz, Imma model ya chick
Was that posing, cash froze her
Cats stroke her, once I smash it's over
Cold like ice, more chains than slaves
Dangerous ways, Poltergeist change the channel
Roll the dice, I bring change when I gamble
I could sell sand to a Arab, hot and my gun handle

[Chorus]

[Nas]
The ill whip pusher, my spit wet ya
If you stand close to the woofer
Betcha get sprayed by my lecture
Any club with ladies or dimes, I'm a regular
Give it up smooth, I ain't beggin ya
Intelligent brainiac, brains maniac
Back of the Maybach, taste that, don't waste that
Eat with my elbows top of the table
Street etiquette with speech impediments
And s'til see presidents, no matter who paid
Cause you ain't take the last dollar made
Long as they keep printing it, there's chances of getting it
Money's my bitch, and we stay intimate
Ask about Nashwan, could ask about Jung
Ask about Bravehearts, and ask where I'm from
Q Boro, specifically The Bridge
Don't ask no more question, ya know what it is

[Chorus]

[Nas]
Whether chrome sparking or loan sharking
Busting rachets or numbers rackets or drug traffic
My funds are wrapped up, no concerns who has what
Financer, skull doo wrapped up
Mob life, prizefights, plasma tvs or first floor
Diversified all my circle
Amid the most sickest groom the proof swiftness
Numero uno, annuit coeptis
That's the language of our Latin ancestors
On the back of a dollar, the plan and the message
In the Rolls Royce like the King of Nigeria
My criteria, smoke cigars
Change rap like Jimi Hendrix changed Rock And Roll
With a broke guitar, diamonds flashing
Almost put a million cash in, in my mommy casket
Seen more green than St. Patrick-trick

[Chorus]

Songwriters
Remi, Salaam / Rudolph, Richard / Stepney, Charles / Jones, Nasir

Published by
Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Universal Music Publishing Group

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