Artist: Nas
Song: Memory Lane
[Sittin' In Da Park]
Album: Illmatic.
1994
Corrections by:
Joe Berhan. Note: These corrections are focused on capturing the M.C.'s true
intentions. Although there are numerous errors in the lyrics entered in the
Hip Hop Archives, Joe has focused only on significant errors in word choice,
etc. 3/22/01
I rap for listeners,
blunt heads, fly ladies, and prisoners,
Henessy holders
and old school niggas.
Then I be dissin'
a
Unofficial the
mo' uly Thai
I dropped out
of Cooley High
Gassed up by a
cokehead cutie pie.
Jungle survivor,
fuck who's the liver.
My man put the
battery in my a bag of 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 a Sheath coat
The choco bless'll
make me see him drop in my weed smoke.
It's real, grew
up in trife life, did times or white lines
The hype price,
murderous nighttimes
And knife fights
invite crimes.
Chill on the block
with cardiac hold strap
When my peeps
that's in the drug money market interact.
No sign of a beast
in a blue Chrysler,
I guess that means
peace.
For niggas too
sheist to fight, they'll just snipe ya' .
Start off the
dice, rollin' mats for craps to C-lo
With side bets
and roll a deuce, not the V- low.
Peace, God. Now
the shit is explained.
I'm takin' niggas
on a trip straight thru memory lane.
It's like that
ch'all; It's like that ch'all; It's like that ch'all;
Chorus:
Let me take a
trip down Memory Lane
Comin' out of
Queensbridge
Verse 2
One for the money,
two for pussy and foreign cars.
Three's for Alize
niggas deceased and 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,
Blue and black
stitches of fat shoelaces.
Peoples are petro.
Dramatic, automatic
.44 I let blow
And back down
po po when I'm vex so.
My pen taps the
paper then my brain's blank.
I see dark streets,
hustlin' brothas who keep the same rank.
Pumpin' for somethin',
some are prosperous, some fail.
Judges hangin'
niggas, uncorrect bails for direct sales.
My intellect prevails
from a hangin' cross with nails,
I reinforce the
frail; with lyrics that's real.
Word to Christ,
the disciple of streets, trifle on beats,
I decipher prophecies
through a mic and say peace.
I hung around
the older crews while they slinged smack to dingbats.
They spoke of
Fat Cat, that nigga's name a bell rings, black.
Some fiends screamed
about Supreme Team,
A Jamaica Queens
thing.
Uptown was Alpo,
son, heard he was kingpin.
Yo, fuck rap;
it's real. Watch the Herb stand still,
Never talkin'
to snakes 'cause the words of man kill.
True in the game,
as long as blood is blue in my veins
I pour a Heineken
brew to my deceased crew on memory lane.
Chorus