Streets of New York Alicia Keys (Ft. Nas & Rakim)
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "Streets of New York" by Alicia Keys (Ft. Nas & Rakim). Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.
[Intro: Nas & Alicia Keys]
Nasty (yeah, yeah)
(New York, New York, New York, New York)
Ayo, black, it's time again! (Yeah, yeah)
(New York, New York, New York, New York)
Yeah. Premier! (Yeah, yeah)
(New York, New York, New York, New York)
(Ayo, black, it's time)
[Verse 1: Nas]
If you knew my streets
You would know all everybody talk about is who got beef
Who's snitchin', who told police
Who came home, who's still gone, who rest in peace
Now they killin' over music money, not drugs, rap replaced it
Cause thugs with no brains got no patience
New jacks I pistol whip 'em with the funky rhythm I be kickin'
Musician, inflictin' composition of pain
I'm like Saddam Hussein
Still alive lookin' at his dead children's burnt remains
I burnt the game, learnt you lames a new lesson
Your crew's soft man, ya'll need some new weapons
The Ps breed warriors in skullies and Timbies
Around micks, spics, niggas, and guineas
For my ghetto kings in deep thought we don't blink
But don't think we wastin' our time
It's a New York state of mind
Nasty (yeah, yeah)
(New York, New York, New York, New York)
Ayo, black, it's time again! (Yeah, yeah)
(New York, New York, New York, New York)
Yeah. Premier! (Yeah, yeah)
(New York, New York, New York, New York)
(Ayo, black, it's time)
[Verse 1: Nas]
If you knew my streets
You would know all everybody talk about is who got beef
Who's snitchin', who told police
Who came home, who's still gone, who rest in peace
Now they killin' over music money, not drugs, rap replaced it
Cause thugs with no brains got no patience
New jacks I pistol whip 'em with the funky rhythm I be kickin'
Musician, inflictin' composition of pain
I'm like Saddam Hussein
Still alive lookin' at his dead children's burnt remains
I burnt the game, learnt you lames a new lesson
Your crew's soft man, ya'll need some new weapons
The Ps breed warriors in skullies and Timbies
Around micks, spics, niggas, and guineas
For my ghetto kings in deep thought we don't blink
But don't think we wastin' our time
It's a New York state of mind
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