Текст песни C-Rayz Walz - `86
C-Rayz Walz - `86 слова песни
Hip-Hop..`86, `86, `86`86, `86, `86Yo[C-Rayz Walz]Yo when C-notes and deep throatsI`m from the era of sheep coats, manilla envelopes and weed smokeBlock parties in 22Graffiti artists like Tru, Two and Jewel, just to name a few for youNow or Laters and son dudes, you hear son?Fair ones, before niggaz learned gun foolYeah +Run+, D.M.C.`s were originalNow we got pretty thugs, and sore criminalsI remember hip-hop, not dominated by visualYour rap was critical, or the crowd got rid of you (boooo)Now it`s pseudo-pitiful, plus punks be `fessinSellin records, talk about what they dressed inI`m sayin that`s a part of it (what) but not the start of itThe livest show, used to be in your apartment kidHip-Hop! Started out in the darkNow it`s mainly focused, to where the fly cars is parkedBut 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 artSo fresh you jet from perfected dartsMic projection sharp, your heart pump Kool-AidYou whack, what? Bring the noise! I got crazy backupPow-Wow was my neighbor, Rasheim had flavorI was pumpin Sugarhill, on my sister`s record playerWhen the Y opened, "The Message" was blastinUTFO was next, then Inspector GadgetHad to be near a bastard to see mean shotsNever was a killer, couldn`t make it to my 13 box5 cent refund, brung change for video gamesNow I see the youth, the scenario changedIt used to be the truth, only rappers had big changeWe argued who was nicer, Rakim, KRS or KaneI`m havin +Nightmares+, I had to speak to Dana DaneTold him I remember the days, and how they made me wanna sayWanna say, wanna say`86, `86, `86`86, `86, `86[C-Rayz Walz]I was body poppin, rockin shockin, plottin to splash in classGirls said I looked like Lakim ShabazzMy homegirl Roxy was Manhattan`s daughterSo slick she bought a bag of chips with a +Latin Quarter+Word to Big Bird herb, and the Izod gatorsLet`s take it +Back to the Future+, without the flux capacitatorsNo backsees, no penny taps for clonesOn my tracks, I would die over spit, like RamoneYou WHACK and get no dap for your rapShot through the bottom of your feet, now that`s my soul clapSo go gold or go plat`, but don`t go backUnless you down by law, cause you might get slapped and jackedSmash your turntables with a hammer (one two)Now, how`s that for breakbeats, knowledge my grammarAt the rally with my Ballys when it`s time to show and proveOn some old school shit like make me, make me move