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