Oh yeah, I’m smelling something—
I think you understand.
Now I’ve got that something:
A warrant to hold grams.
My haunt is Oaksterdam,
I haul to Oaksterdam.

When police say to me:
“What have you got there, man?”
To police, I say: “See:
Warrant, no tokster ban!”
My haunt is Oaksterdam,
I’m off to Oaksterdam.

They cannot touch me,
It is the law to abide.
And so they’re greeting
Me and then
Off they ride. . .

Those crews have got something
To sell that isn’t banned
If you’ve got that something:
A warrant to hold grams.
My haunt is Oaksterdam,
I haul to Oaksterdam.

And when I’ve got weed,
I feel happy inside.
It bucks that feeling
Of knife stuck through my hide,
in my side,
And then pried.

I rue at that stuck-in sensation—it ain’t grand;
Don’t rue when I’m puffin’
In vaunted Oaksterdam.
My haunt is Oaksterdam. . . .