Memory Lane (Sittin' in Da Park)

[Produced by DJ Premier] [Intro] (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 Chocolate 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 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 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] Outro [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"