[Intro]
The Graduate
Terry Urban
It's ya boy Kanye to the, and you're checking out Mick Boogie. You can't me nothin'!

[Verse 1: Kanye West]
Feeling better than some head on a Sunday afternoon
Better than a chick that say "Yes" too soon
Until you have a daughter; that's what I call karma
And you pray to God she don't grow breasts too soon
Projects tore up, gang signs is thrown up
N***as hats broke off, that's how we grow up
Why else you think shorties write rhymes? Just to blow up?
Get they first car and then, IRS show up
He ain't never had shit, but he had that nine
N***a come through flicking and he had that shine
Put two and two togethеr and a little bad weather
Gon' bе your whole family on that funeral line
Asked the reverend, "Was the strip clubs cool?
If my tips helped send a pretty girl through school?"
That's all I want, like winos want they good whiskey
I ain't in the Klan, but I brought my hood with me

[Chorus: Really Doe]
You motherfuckers better do your job and roll up
And watch how we roll up, and
I can't control it, can't hold it, it's so nuts
I take a sip of that 'gnac, I wanna fuck
I take a hit of that chronic, it got me stuck
But really what's amazing is how I keep blazing
Towel under the door, we smoke until the day's end
Puff puff, then pass, don't fuck up rotation
Hpnotiq for Henny? Now, n***a, that's a chaser
Turn nothing to something, now, pimping, that's a savior
Best things are green, now, pimpin', get your paper
High off the ground, from stair to skyscraper
Cool out, thinking we local, c'mon, homie, we major

[Verse 2: Nas]
I heard the beat and I ain't know what to write
First line—should it be about the hoes or the ice?
Four-fours or Black Christ? Both flows'd be nice
Rap about big paper or the black man plight
At the studio console, asked my man to the right
"What this verse sound like? Should I freestyle or write?
He said, "Nas, what the fans want is Illmatic, still"
Looked at the pad and pencil, and jotted what I feel
Been like twelve years since a n***a first signed
Now, I'm a free agent, and I'm thinking it's time
To build my very own Motown
'Cause rappers be deprived of executive nine-to-fives
And it hurts to see these companies be stealing the life
And I love to give my blood, sweat and tears to the mic
So y'all copped the LPs and y'all fiends got dealt
I'm Jesse Jackson on the balcony when King got killed
I survived the livest n***as around
Lasted longer than more than half of you clowns
Look, I used to cook before I had the game took
Either way, my change came like Sam Cooke