| The sun reflects off of the waves at sea
|
| Rain support roots that implants the tree
|
| There’s a breeze — in the park, kites fly high
|
| Under the branches, con-vertibles fly by The sky.
|
| .blue, fields green
|
| Paints a picture that creates a scene
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| of the destiny that controls my fate
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| Reflections of light, creates shapes
|
| Inside of this particular sphere, I see kids in the street
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| When I pass, I go Beep! |
| Beep! |
| Beep!
|
| See the black boy over there runnin scared
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| His old man runs numbers summers
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| Come in and he’ll feel dumb if his son
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| doesn’t have a new pair of sneakers
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| So he combinates people’s numbers in sequence
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| when play straight, but not in the leaders
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| Hip-Hop pumps inside of Jeeps and cars
|
| It’s daytime but we still peep stars
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| Parties every night, we gotta move, we gotta go We gotta step, let’s, jet!
|
| We gotta get away, we gotta do it now
|
| We gotta walk into the sun! |
| Ha hah
|
| We gotta get away, we gotta do it now
|
| We gotta walk into the sun!
|
| We gotta get away, we gotta do it now
|
| We gotta walk into the sun! |
| Ha hah
|
| We gotta get away, we gotta do it now
|
| We gotta walk. |
| in.to. |
| the. |
| sun.
|
| Love and hate, black and white
|
| Right or wrong, who is right?
|
| Some smoke joints to annoint their brain
|
| to the vanishing point, so they won’t go insane
|
| Mother may I? |
| Yes you may
|
| Take some giant steps, to go out, and play
|
| I got next, sorry Duke, I got my five
|
| You better call next, and step to the side
|
| There’s no specific topic of speech in this rhyme
|
| I just wanna go on a ride
|
| on a kaleidoscopic tree, visually.
|
| .individually, we go our seperate ways
|
| to get our haircuts and mustaches trimmed
|
| Rockin a t-shirt, shorts with thick socks
|
| with my boots that I nickname Tim-ber
|
| Here comes dayfall
|
| I can remember when we used to chill and hang
|
| with Paul, Sea.
|
| We gotta get away, we gotta do it now
|
| We gotta walk into the sun! |
| Ha hah
|
| We gotta get away, we gotta do it now
|
| We gotta walk. |
| in.to. |
| the. |
| sun.
|
| Sittin on a stoop, while the Johnny-pump shoots
|
| water while we eat fruits
|
| The radio pumps, rockin to L.O.N.S. |
| and yes
|
| the girls display flesh by the way they dress
|
| The Ave surprises, the fulfilling collage
|
| of scratches that strike like sticky matches
|
| Attacking techniques with combinating
|
| Constantly motivating highly elevating the light steps
|
| When the air gets thick and you can feel the tension
|
| I bypass Howard, and detour Benson
|
| Cause I don’t really feel like fencing today
|
| So I chill in my own dimension and listen to the sax blow.
|
| . |
| flow, abstract the sax always seems to relax you
|
| But at the same time, it attacks you
|
| In this particular era of darkness
|
| Bust a rhyme that might enlighten the mind and spark this
|
| trail to follow the light that’s guiding you from
|
| the evil that you walk into the sun
|
| From what I see it’s an addiction
|
| I’ll explain to the brain about pain affliction
|
| Grab my hand, hold it tightly
|
| Close your eyes and maybe you might see what I see
|
| Yo, what I said simplistic
|
| But what I see’s not materialistic
|
| My hayfever is actin up, so I took a couple of antihistamines
|
| WHEW! |
| I got struck with relief
|
| Now patiently, I wait for the summer
|
| Cause the spring brings pollen and that can be a bummer
|
| A terrific brother was havin a specific get-together by the beach
|
| Rolling Rock’s, plus Peach Schnapps, served on the rocks
|
| The Organisms play the boardwalk, pullin numbers from Pros’Peak
|
| The scenario, where we go pumpin the Alpine stereo
|
| Hop along the turnpike on our way to the merry-go-
|
| -round up the herbs at six flags; |
| we’re on a mission
|
| Hittin the streets of New York in zig-zags
|
| Walkin to the park, hark, the herald, named Erald
|
| who creates with charts
|
| Central Park swarms with intellectual dialects
|
| With the potential, of the city’s best emergency medical techs
|
| So I dip dip dive
|
| Listen to the musicians in the park play live
|
| The Funky Drummer was drummin even though he was a bum
|
| Some couldn’t comprehend, the vibe that blended
|
| With the sum, there were some, who wasn’t dumb
|
| I supported with the hum, dropped five bucks, cause he was the one
|
| Yo, I gave a clap, I gave a wink, I gave a shout
|
| I gotta meet the Monch, STRIKE THREE, and I was out! |