Nas - Memory Lane (Sittin’ In Da Park) [paroles]

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Nas - Memory Lane (Sittin’ In Da Park)

Paroles: Memory Lane

[Produced by DJ Premier]


(Check check)

A'ight fuck that shit, word word, fuck that other shit, y'know what I'm sayin? We gonna do a lil sum like this, y'know what I'm sayin?

(ya'll doin that other shit) Keep it on and on and on and on-in. Know'm sayin, Big Nas, Grand Wizard, what is it. Ha-ha it's like

You know what I'm sayin. Yo go head and rip that shit dun

[Verse 1]

I rap for listeners, bluntheads, fly ladies and prisoners

Henessey-holders and old-school niggas, then I be dissing

A unofficial that smoke Woolie Thai

I dropped out of Cooley High, gassed up by a cokehead cutie pie

Jungle survivor, fuck who's the live-er

My man put the battery in my back, a difference 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

Charcoal incense make me see him drop in my weed smoke

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

The hype pipes, murderous nighttimes and knife fights and blight crimes

Chill on the block with Cognac, hold strap

With my peeps that's into drug money market interact

No sign of the beast in the blue Chrysler, I guess that means peace

For niggas, no sheisty vice to just snipe ya

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

With side-bets, 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 y'all


"Now let me take a trip down memory lane"

"Coming outta Queensbridge"

[Verse 2]

One for the money

Two for pussy and foreign cars

Three for Alizé, niggas deceased or behind bars

I rap divine, God, 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

You're telephone blown, black, stitches or fat shoelaces

Peoples are petro, dramatic automatic .44 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'll prosper, 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

[Hook x4]


[Premier Scracthing]

"Coming out of Queensbridge" (X4)

The most dangerous MC is...."Coming out of Queensbridge"(x3)

"Ya number one and y'know where you're from"