Memory Lane (Sittin’ In Da Park) Songtext / Lyric

Aight fuck that shit, word word

Fuck that other shit, you know what I'm sayin?

We're gonna do a little something like this, you

know what I'm sayin?

(Is they up on this?)

Keep it on and on and on and on and.

know what I'm sayin? Big Nas, Grand Wizard,

God what it is?

(What it is like?) Hah, know what I'm sayin?

You go 'head, do that shit nigga

I rap for listeners, blunt heads, fly ladies and

prisoners

Hennessey holders and old school niggas, then I

be dissin a unofficial that smoke woolie thai

I dropped out of Kooley High, gassed up by a

cokehead cutie pie

Jungle survivor, fuck who's the liver

My man put the battery in my back, a

differencem from Energizer

Sentence begins indented with formality

My duration's infinite, moneywise or physiology

Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop

I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop, straight

off the block

I reminisce on park jams, my man was shot for

his sheep coat

Chocolate blunts make me see him drop in my

weed smoke

It's real, grew up in trife life, did times or white

lines

The hype vice, murderous nighttimes, and knife

fights invite crimes

Chill on the block with Cognac, hold strap

with my peeps that's into drug money, market

into rap

No sign of the beast in the blue Chrysler, I guess

that means peace

For niggas no sheisty vice to just snipe you

Start off the dice-rolling mats for craps to cee-lo

With sidebets, I roll a deuce, nothing below

(peace God!)

Peace God -- now the shit is explained

I'm taking niggas on a trip straight through

memory lane

It's like that you all it's like that you all it's like

that you all

"Now let me take a trip down memory lane" ->

"Comin outta Queensbridge"

One for the money

Two for pussy and foreign cars

Three for Alize niggas deceased or behind bars

I rap divine Gods check the prognosis, is it real

or showbiz?

My window faces shootouts, drug overdoses

Live amongst no roses, only the drama, for real

A nickel-plate is my fate, my medicine is the

ganja

Here's my basis, my razor embraces, many faces

Your telephone blowing, black stitches or fat

shoelaces

Peoples are petrol, dramatic automatic four-four I

let blow

and back down po-po when I'm vexed so

my pen taps the paper then my brain's blank

I see dark streets, hustling brothers who keep

the same rank

Pumping for something, some uprise, plus some

fail

Judges hanging niggas, uncorrect bails, for direct

sales

My intellect prevails from a hanging cross with

nails

I reinforce the frail, with lyrics that's real

Word to Christ, a disciple of streets, trifle on

beats

I decipher prophecies through a mic and say

peace.

I hung around the older crews while they sling

smack to dingbats

They spoke of Fat Cat, that nigga's name made

bell rings, black

Some fiends scream, about Supreme Team, a

Jamaica Queens thing

Uptown was Alpo, son, heard he was kingpin, yo

Fuck "rap is real", watch the herbs stand still

Never talking to snakes 'cause the words of man

kill

True in the game, as long as blood is blue in my

veins

I pour my Heineken brew to my deceased crew

on memory lane

"Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is.

"Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is.

"Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is.

"Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is.

Me number won, and you know where me from