Last Of The Spiddyocks (Digable Planets)

The season's been good like a sweet I hang out with a gang out Flatbush with cool beats I foun the reverberated shout was "god damn" And questions about the methods how the Planets made jams Wallowed through a gang of mirk in the interim A couple of times we got jerked but still invented them Wicked litle kick it joints that got us ghetto wheight And also kept the jazz alive by pulling off the plates Maybe only we was hip to stretching out the brain I felt like Bird Parker when I shot it in my vein I toss these major losses on a Mingus jazzy strum Flip off into a nod and dig myself for dying young It's like cool was the bop and the flair I kicks it to my pools by the nap of the hair I'm pinning Uncle Sam for the death of swinging quotes For losing Bud Powell sliding over Dizzy's notes Was it that the rebirth was the birth of new shit or cool shit The jazz power shower showed the crew was sure legit But hey presence is gone Hank Mo's gone They killed the coolest breeze in this land of the free And it been like that since they lied about they flag Like all my main man's gave their beats up for skag So I pops it at your crew like Bu I did a lid But I use Lee's Cooker I got my buzz around midnight The season's been smooth like the suede Pumas that Butter got when Butter got paid Or better yet Dolphy's archetypes for cool dudes Or better still 'Trane using space in afro blue It's simple Swing be the freakin' of the time The spinning by the King's good for speaking of the mind The 47 sessions gave the buzzes that I caught They asked me was it cool blues Knowledge {What you thought?} I told them it was solid, dig, the licks was way out My baby loves to kiss when Ornette just lays out So the quotes be as such about the kits, uh {You down with Digable Planets you is a hipster, shit} I lay it on the cats about Monk The logical extensions coming booming out that trunk Assuming that the room in which you zoom's designed by your mind, not the stars and stripes But Red Callis booms and the rat-a-tat-tat by Max or Philly Joe On we go The season's been fat like some boom Doodlebugs math jazz fillin gup the room When Booker jammed with Eric at the funky 5 spot And Jimmy Cob's job was laying crashes on the top Butter cops his lid at this little Harlem jam The tenor bopped the middle in his shades and his tam I'm digging how these dudes made my buzz a little hipper And angles on the mood really couldn't get no blacker I'm sinking deep to the slickness of the horn I'm thinking take the hipness and just lay it in my form So when the hoodlums flood waiting for another anthem I say it's in the blood 'cause it ain't nothing but rhythm And rhythm goes on and on to the break of moon baby The dads is gone but the youth still come lovely The sickness towards the world when Sam caused the blues But hipness takes a swirl in jams by my crew