| {*scratched: "Whattya think makes up a K-R-S?"*} | |
| [KRS-One] | |
| Skinny cat, young cat, with a knapsack strapped to my back | |
| 1981 before the crack attack | |
| I used to let the Olde English 800 suds bubble | |
| In the last car of the Franklin Avenue shuttle | |
| Brooklyn, no doubt, Wingate Park, no doubt | |
| Prospect Park I'm all laid out | |
| Homeless, my gear played out and I know this | |
| But I'm an MC I stay focused | |
| I took the shuttle to the D and wrote my rhymes in a hour | |
| Took the D to the E, last stop the Twin Towers | |
| Sittin in the belly of the beast | |
| In the World Trade organization, bein harassed by the police | |
| I wrote my rhymes right there on the spot | |
| New York City, 1984 corruption was hot | |
| Cats sellin uzis out the Jacob Javits Center for a high price | |
| Let me tell you 'bout my life | |
| [Chorus] | |
| {*scratched: "The type of shit a young black man | |
| gotta go through every day of his life"*} | |
| {*scratched: "Hard times to live in | |
| Wake up in the morning thank God"*} | |
| {*scratched: "The type of shit a young black man | |
| gotta go through every day of his life"*} | |
| {*scratched: "Hard times to live in | |
| Wake up in the morning"*} ... {*"Now it's my turn"*} | |
| {"Listen"} | |
| [KRS-One] | |
| Eighty-five comes in, eighty-six comes in | |
| The marijuana with the cocaine mix comes in | |
| High class hustlers, I'm takin flicks with them | |
| My first songs Red Alert, he's mixin them | |
| This a far cry from a kid sleepin on the bench | |
| Now I'm V.I.P. in the club, this don't make sense | |
| But it does, as I take daps and hugs | |
| from cats that move drugs, they say "Kris rise above" | |
| Everybody knew my style, Kris was no coward | |
| I wanted to get in the game but my peeps wouldn't allow it | |
| They'd say, "Read them books and write them hooks | |
| Save our children, give 'em a whole new outlook" | |
| So I did, I lived like any street kid | |
| But I was handed 20 books, others were handed 20 year bids | |
| Still they wouldn't sell to your mother or your wife | |
| There was respect man~! Let me tell you 'bout my life | |
| [Chorus] | |
| [KRS-One] | |
| 1987 my career blowin up now | |
| Me and Scott LaRock took the year growin up now | |
| Me I'm just a private cat, whatever you perceive as live | |
| KRS is as live as that | |
| We the livest act, in eighty-eight, eighty-nine, and ninety-now | |
| But them years be far behind me now | |
| In ninety-one, no one can find me now | |
| I chose the underground to rhyme where it's grimy, WOW | |
| Rewind me now, 13 albums for you to see | |
| Or catch me speakin at them universities | |
| My mind stays keen, I'm hardly ever seen | |
| I do a lot of work, just not in the mainstream | |
| {*scratched: "Know what you need to learn | |
| Old school artists don't always burn"*} | |
| {*scratched: "Know what you need to learn... | |
| KRS-One... don't always burn"*} |
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