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Memory Lane (Sittin’ in da Park) Songtext
von Nas

Memory Lane (Sittin’ in da Park) Songtext

Aight, fuck that shit! Word, word
Fuck that other shit, y'know what I'm sayin'?
We gonna do a lil somethin' like this
Y'know what I'm sayin'?
(Y'all doing that other shit)
Keep it on and on and on and on and
Know'm sayin'? Big Nas, Grand Wizard, what is it?
(It's like...) Haha, you know what I'm sayin'?
Yo, go ahead and rip that shit, dun!


I rap for listeners, bluntheads, fly ladies, and prisoners
Henessey-holders and old-school niggas, then I be dissin' 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
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 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-rollin' mats for craps to cee-lo
With side-bets, I roll a deuce, nothin' below
(Peace God!) Peace God – now the shit is explained
I'm takin' niggas on a trip straight through memory lane
It's like that, y'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 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, hustlin' brothers who keep the same rank
Pumpin' for somethin', some'll prosper, some fail
Judges hangin' niggas, uncorrect bails for direct sales
My intellect prevails from a hangin' 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 talkin' 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

"Now let me take a trip down memory lane"
"Comin' outta Queensbridge"
"Now let me take a trip down memory lane"
"Comin' outta Queensbridge"

"Comin' out of Queensbridge"
"The most dangerous MC is..."
"Comin' out of Queensbridge"
"The most dangerous MC is..."
"Comin' out of Queensbridge"
"The most dangerous MC is..."
"Comin' out of Queensbridge"
"The most dangerous MC is..."
"Me number one, and you know where me from"

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