Ronald Reagan Era

We're far from good, not good from far

Ninety miles per hour down Compton Boulevard

With the top down, screaming "We don't give a fuck"

Drink my forty ounce of freedom while I roll my blunt

'Cause the kids just ain't alright

Oh, shit, ****, somethin' 'bout to happen, ****, this shit

****, this sound like thirty keys under the Compton court building

Hope the dogs don't smell it

Welcome to vigilante, 80's so don't you ask me

I'm hungry, my body's antsy, I rip through your fuckin' pantry

Peelin' off like a Xanny, examine my orchestra

Granny said when I'm old enough, I'll be sure to be all I can be

You **** Marcus Camby, washed up

Pussy, fix your panties, I'm Mr. Marcus, you getting fucked, uh

You ain't heard nothin' harder since Daddy Kane

Take it in vain, Vicodins couldn't ease the pain

Lightnin' bolts hit your body, you thought it rained

Not a cloud in sight, just the shit that I write

Strong enough to stand in front of a travellin' freight train, are you trained?

To go against Dracula, draggin' the record industry by my fangs

AK clips, money clips and gold chains

You walk around with a P90 like it's the 90's

Bullet to your temple, your homicide'll remind me

That Compton Crip **** ain't nothin' to fuck with

Bompton Pirus ain't nothin' to fuck with

Compton éses ain't nothin' to fuck with

But they fuck with me, and, bitch, I love it

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop, woop de woop

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop (California dungeons)

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop, woop de woop

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop (California dungeons)

Let's hit the county buildin', gotta cash my check

Spend it all on a 40-ounce to the neck

And in retrospect I remember December being the hottest

Squad cars, neighborhood wars and stolen Mazdas

I tell you mothafuckas that life is full of hydraulics

Up and down, get a '64, better know how to drive it

I'm drivin' on E with no license or registration

Heart racin', racin' past Johnny because he's racist

1987, the children of Ronald Reagan, rake the leaves off

Your front porch with a machine blowtorch (I'm really out here, my ****)

He blowin' on stress, hopin' to ease the stress (Like, really out here)

He coppin' some blow, hopin' that it can stretch

Newborn massacre, hoppin' out the passenger

With calendars, 'cause your date's comin'

Run him down and then he gun him down, I'm hopin' that you fast enough

Even the legs of Michael Johnson don't mean nothin', because

Compton Crip **** ain't nothin' to fuck with

Bompton Pirus ain't nothin' to fuck with

Compton éses ain't nothin' to fuck with

But they fuck with me, and, bitch, I love it

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop, woop de woop

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop (California dungeons)

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop, woop de woop

Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop (California dungeons)

Can't detour when you're at war with your city, why run for?

Just ride with me, just die with me, that gun store, right there

When you fight, don't fight fair 'cause you'll never win

Right, I had the yapper, and I tore they ass up

Can't detour when you're at war with your city, why run for?

Just ride with me, just die with me, that gun store, right there

When you fight, don't fight fair 'cause you'll never win

Yeah, yeah, yeah)

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa

We really out here, my ****

You **** don't understand my ****

I'm off of pill and Remy Red

My ****, trippin', my ****