Memory Lane (Sittin' In Da Park) (Live)-Nas

Aight f**k that shit, word word F**k that other shit, you know what I'm sayin? We're gonna do a little something like this, you know what I'm sayin? (Is they up on this?) Keep it on and on and on and on and. know what I'm sayin? Big Nas, Grand Wizard, God what it is? (What it is like?) Hah, know what I'm sayin? You go 'head, do that shit nigga I rap for listeners, blunt heads, fly ladies and prisoners Hennessey holders and old school niggas, then I be dissin a unofficial that smoke woolie thai I dropped out of Kooley High, gassed up by a cokehead cutie pie Jungle survivor, f**k who's the liver My man put the battery in my back, a differencem 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 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 you Start off the dice-rolling mats for craps to cee-lo With sidebets, 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 you all it's like that you all it's like that you 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 Alize niggas deceased or behind bars I rap divine Gods 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 petrol, dramatic automatic four-four 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 uprise, 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 F**k "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 "Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is. "Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is. "Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is. "Comin outta Queensbridge" -> The most dangerous MC is. Me number won, and you know where me from