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 niggaz learned gun fool
Yeah +Run+, D.M.C.`s were original
Now we got pretty thugs, and sore 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`ma 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
When the Y 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
