'86

Hip-Hop.. '86, '86, '86 '86, '86, '86 Yo [C-Rayz Walz] Yo when C-notes and deep throats I'm from the era of sheep coats, manilla envelopes and weed smoke Block parties in 22 Graffiti artists like Tru, Two and Jewel, just to name a few for you Now or Laters and son dudes, you hear son? Fair ones, before niggas learned gun fool Yeah +Run+, D.M.C.'s were original Now we got pretty thugs, and soft criminals I remember hip-hop, not dominated by visual Your rap was critical, or the crowd got rid of you (boooo) Now it's pseudo-pitiful, plus punks be 'fessin Sellin records, talk about what they dressed in I'm sayin that's a part of it (what) but not the start of it The livest show, used to be in your apartment kid Hip-Hop! Started out in the dark Now it's mainly focused, to where the fly cars is parked But it's still in my, still in my heart '86, '86, '86 '86, '86, '86 [C-Rayz Walz] Busy Bee told y'all, now I'mma Kurtis Blow y'all out the art So fresh you jet from perfected darts Mic projection sharp, your heart pump Kool-Aid You whack, what? Bring the noise! I got crazy backup Pow-Wow was my neighbor, Rasheim had flavor I was pumpin Sugarhill, on my sister's record player Window wide opened, "The Message" was blastin UTFO was next, then Inspector Gadget Had to be near a bastard to see mean shots Never was a killer, couldn't make it to my 13 box 5 cent refund, brung change for video games Now I see the youth, the scenario changed It used to be the truth, only rappers had big change We argued who was nicer, Rakim, KRS or Kane I'm havin +Nightmares+, I had to speak to Dana Dane Told him I remember the days, and how they made me wanna say Wanna say, wanna say '86, '86, '86 '86, '86, '86 [C-Rayz Walz] I was body poppin, rockin shockin, plottin to splash in class Girls said I looked like Lakim Shabazz My homegirl Roxy was Manhattan's daughter So slick she bought a bag of chips with a +Latin Quarter+ Word to Big Bird herb, and the Izod gators Let's take it +Back to the Future+, without the flux capacitators No backsees, no penny taps for clones On my tracks, I would die over spit, like Ramone You WHACK and get no dap for your rap Shot through the bottom of your feet, now that's my soul clap So go gold or go plat', but don't go back Unless you down by law, cause you might get slapped and jacked Smash your turntables with a hammer (one two) Now, how's that for breakbeats, knowledge my grammar At the rally with my Ballys when it's time to show and prove On some old school shit like make me, make me move