[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
Childhood lesson make me see him drop in my weed smoke
It's real, grew up in trife life, the times of 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 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
[Hook]
"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 Alize, 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
Your telephone blowing, 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, 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
compositores: CHRISTOPHER ANTHONY JOHN MARTIN, NASIR JONES, PEG BARSELLA, REUBEN LINCOLN WILSON
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