PLEASE DON'T SELL MY DADDY NO MORE WINE (Red Lane) « © '69 Tree Publishing » Please don't sell my daddy no more wine no more wine Mama
in my nature So four years now, that's what I've been searchin' for 'cause doin' dirt grows old when it's the same old thing That's why I try to take
be trippin' on a big ol' booty I'm supposed to be a star When you see them tanks, you know who we are You on a mission with your pussy You after my papers
crazy dog and a graveyard of old "jimmy" hoods sudays we'd run for his stash at the new york state line that summer when moments of circumstance altered like wine
stares For the womenfolk tend to be friendly And the gypsy's as young as he's fair And the evening brought on laughter And jars of bright red wine And
Light fading and the fog is getting thicker It's a frail grasp on the big picture Dark ages You?re my love drunk friend All that red wine and candlelight
life I woke up one day, Lord to find that I was by myself With dreams of Georgia cotton and California wine Sunday mornin' found me standin' 'neath the red
I picked up the phone and said "Baby, I'm home I'll be there in a minute or two" I stole some of my neighbor's daisies Grabbed an old bottle of wine
Last night she let the strong red wine carry her away She smoked up her old sunshine as if it still shined every day Her hand reached out and touched
parents, who are grown ups There's a line we have to toe it But we're part of a conspiracy About this bearded big fat guy Who isn't real, who never lived Who's old
Now I ain't about to tell you who told me But somebody seen you around Marching up and down the street to the beat Of just about any old drummer in town
blow The water seeped into his shoes and the drizzle turned to snow His eyes were red his hopes were dead and the wine was running low And the old man
grow the grapes for the Canaanites And I wanna sail upon the seven seas I wanna see the old Gods rule again I wanna make the wine for the Canaanites
Napoleon Bonaparte Peepin' out the colors, I be buggin' on Cezanne They call me Mike D, Joe Blow, the Lover Man Well, your face turns as red as your glass of wine
'm on the cheese line, poverty-stricken As the red tape thickens I go to the park, they wanna baseball-bat me I go to the mall, they throw my old tapes
Ringing the necks of silly southern belles Who wanted to scold her Don't bring me down I'm trouble bound Blue song, red alert Who made Stella hurt?
' in my headphones, red in my stones Good ganja out, if I die fill up my headstones With water, dough, acid and gold classics All my niggaz who pump
Yo, this is Yella, as we wine down to the final song I wanted to make this one to remember my lil' nigga E I know he wanted this track on his record Though