Memory Lane (sittin' In Da Park) Lyrics - Illmatic - Nas

Aight fuck that shit, word word 

Fuck 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, fuck 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 

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 

"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 

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