Last Of The Spiddyocks

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