Ronald Reagan Era

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We're far from good, not good from far

90 miles per hour down Compton Boulevard

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

Drink my 40-ounce of freedom while I roll my blunt

'Cause the kids just ain't alright

Oh shit, nigga

Somethin' 'bout to happen

Nigga, this shit

Nigga, this sound like 30 keys under the Compton Court building

Hope the dogs don't smell it

Welcome to vigilante, '80s 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 niggas Marcus Camby, washed up

Pussy, fix your panties, I'm Mr. Marcus, you gettin' 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 travelin' 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 '90s

Bullet to your temple, your homicide'll remind me that

Compton Crip niggas 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-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop

Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop (California Dungeons)

Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop

Woop-di-woop, woop-di-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 bein' the hottest

Squad cars, neighborhood wars, and stolen Mazdas

I tell you motherfuckers 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', racing 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 nigga)

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 day 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 niggas 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-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop

Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop (California Dungeons)

Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop

Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop (California Dungeons)

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

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 yopper, and I tore they ass up)

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

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 nigga

You niggas don't understand, my nigga

I'm off a pill and Rémy Red, my nigga

Trippin', my nigga