| The park got the pop like fish grease
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| Full to the gills like a hooked up six piece
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| With a biscuit on the spot like a fresh toupee
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| For sunshine on a fresh blue day
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| Gents breaking out they fresh new jays to match hats
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| Ladies with they best do, laid and relax
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| Like, the children skipping rope, double dutch chantin'
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| Miss Mary Mack, dressed in black, hands clappin'
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| Sweet Cadillacs with they backs sub slappin'
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| Puppy love couples cuddle with they clothes matchin'
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| Cops passin’harass and tail ya
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| Sometimes pull your ass over just to tell ya
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| I feel yous, amongst the rose and azaleas
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| Got congregatin’like Martin King in Selma
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| Just tryin’to have a good time like James and Thelma
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| My cousin bang the Pac, my mama sang the Mahalia
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| Feels good today, all the hood’s dismay
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| Is outshined by what coming together could equate
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| Through my locs see my Kynfolk that stood with me
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| Dayton’s spokes, crown on leather and wood display
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| My queen’s dressed for impression, that’s God sendin’blessin'
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| Hot like the West End, Icebox on the FM
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| We need this, more than Playboy needs Hef and
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| More than your lungs need breath, uh
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| Fresh air
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| What a day
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| At the park
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| Fresh air
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| What a day
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| At the park
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| Fresh air
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| It’s gettin’cool, but the code still red
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| Stripes and Patron on chill, my folks all fed
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| Ladies, what it do? |
| Fellas, what it is
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| Oughta have a blue carpet for the A’s on the list
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| Got the bootleggers tryin’to appraise me some shit
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| Like twenty dollars can put sunrays on my wrist
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| And fo sho', this hot sauce stays on my fish
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| Yo the ladies, playas gamin’like live on 'em
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| DJ on the mic got the slide goin'(hey)
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| Soul Train line moves like the glide throwin'(ho)
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| On the slow songs, grind, put pine in the ozone
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| Find somethin’fine to poke on
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| As the sun puts locs on, light is no mystery
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| Hickory smoke’s gone off the rotisserie
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| Physically driven all over my nose cavity
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| Tiffany strut as her booty oppose gravity
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| How do I get her without her cold slappin’me?
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| Have to been late in the park-parking lot
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| Where trunks knock a lot and weed spark a lot
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| And humidity’s scorching hot, will beef cook or rot?
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| Summer breeze, in need, like Benjis and Jacksons
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| Instead, pennies are stackin’and coppers’reactin'
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| To how peoples’relaxin’in orderly fashion
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| If you holdin’a rock then you ought to be passin'
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| 'Cause they ain’t playin', got a cell you can stay in
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| Can this night go off right? |
| I’m prayin'
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| Please Lord, hear these words that I’m sayin'
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| On this day, can angels party without Satan? |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song The Park , by - CunninLynguists. Song from the album Dirty Acres, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп