Получи текст песни C-Rayz Walz - `86на свой мобильный!
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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
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