| I say my prayers every morning just like orange juice
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| I crack the crinkles out my body till I’m feeling loose
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| I strap my sneakers on my feet like they was combat boots
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| they fit my feet like Cinderella when I’m shooting hoops
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| Why oh why do memories keep chasing me sometimes it makes me wanna grab my shit and flee
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| sometimes I wanna blow my brains to put my life at ease
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| but I ain’t clocking out I gotta see the seven seas
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| please seven’s a very lucky number for me that was the age when I discovered how good balling could be up every morning with the birdies doing little drills
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| go to my left go to my right developing mad skills
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| how could a love for this game bring so much sadness
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| I played with brothas with so much badness
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| but now they gone I sing a song pop a three
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| from the top of the key in they memory
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| Why oh Why do memories be chasing me sometimes it makes me wanna grab my shit and flee
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| even in seasons when it’s another color sport
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| I still be memorizing lines out on the basketball court singing
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| Why oh Why do memories be chasing me sometimes it makes me wanna grab my shit and flee
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| even in seasons when it’s another color sport
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| I be remembering my partners on the basketball court
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| Do you remember runnin’the court in September
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| me and my homies be down for whoever
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| would come along and try to send us to the showers
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| from the game that we’d been dominating’there for hours
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| all day to be more specific east to west
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| from Atlantic to Pacific fools would come round
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| to get down and try to take our crown
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| but we would hold our ground and we would never back down
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| old timers new timers would get in line there
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| and take a seat there and try to prepare
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| but oh no! |
| there was no chance when we was in the zone
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| we was alone at the top we had hops we got props
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| and when we needed to we busted chops
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| wipe the court with your game like we was using mops
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| what ever happened to the super hoopers in the park
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| I reminisce while shootin’solitary after dark
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| Brother C came fresh from out of town
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| and he had handles and like McDonald’s he could clown ya dribbling baby bounces between drinking forty ounces
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| knock ya on your heels and do circles like he was Curly Neal
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| but oh no, the liquor got quicker to his head and he said
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| I think I musta placed some stupid bets
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| he hit me up for some cash
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| there was a car crash a splash and then the brother made a mad dash
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| Rob oh Rob his whole life was like a roller coaster
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| but on the court he looked like a Dr. J poster
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| flying high with an Afro blowing in the wind
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| wiping Windex, index finger rolls off the glass
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| then swish through the net jump a Corvette with a triple pirouette
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| but off the court he had a few temptations copulations
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| no moderations by 24 he had 3 pregnations
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| last check crack intoxications
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| so many other brothers gone from this dimension
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| and none of those who got hurt receive a pension
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| give a Bup! |
| Bup! |
| to those locked up in detention
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| memories too many dimension
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| and we say, one more time… one more time |