86 – C-Rayz Walz – letras

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