Yeah. What's up? Niggas ain't sticking to the script. Original gangsta shit. You already know.

It's a lot of imitation and faking going on. You already know. We put the footprint down.

That's why it's the West Coast. The FC. Let the snicks know.

They say it's a brand new scene and the West Coast is gray like cross -colored jeans.

They're telling me we died, but along his way in the cheesy flame that chewed up.

I know that it's a lie back in the saddle agitated.

The gravel deadly with the verbal still suck. You watch your sandals.

Maybe blue Mercedes new still make it.

Call him in from the same side as Tookie Williams, Raymond Washington.

And I could give a fuck about a train. No cool.

But what's in a suck dick for spins? Faggot ass niggas. I don't jiggle for cash figures.

I'd rather have your ass picking out glass.

I ain't the ass licker. Every time I spit it, I treat this like my last dinner.

I'm in the industry electric chair because I don't wear skinny jeans.

I walk by the swamp. Meet Beanie Lee. I see so many fake ass niggas.

Prance around, dance and shake that niggas. I just sit back.

If I stem, change up, fuck the bullshit. I'm keeping it.

Jack is a Chuck Taylor ragtop.

And go days. Fuck knocking with gangster shit.

Nigga, that ain't your ex to bitch.

Bad luck. The east side of what you talk is step out.

I need that, homie. I don't do square penis. I'm in and out the hood.

Plus, I'm good with the whoopers. That's why I'm in and out the wood.

Should I talk because I live it on my machine?

So this thing would throw me off my pivot. I stand tall on my way.

What's an OG with my police on this fire street?

Nigga, leave me. Radio left us. Catch him east of the 110.

They don't respect us. I call on the shady. It's like becoming a stripper.

We're playing Michael Jordan. They want me. It's got a picture.

Now, look, you don't know nothing like the old me.

I'm coming off the glass head burner from the stove.

I'm thinking to the script. That's how I was taught.

I learned it from my niggas. I'm like, you are the marks.

I see so many fake ass niggas. Prance around, dance and shake that niggas.

I just sit back and watch them change up. Fuck the bullshit. I'm keeping it gangsta.

Caggis and Chuck Taylors. Stick to the script.

Ragtop and go daisy. Stick to the script.

Fuck knocking with gangsta shit. Stick to the script.

Nigga, that ain't gangsta, bitch. Stick to the script.

That's the song called G. Put it down for the DP.

Look, that crazy. You niggas, you can't amaze me.

It's getting real in the field. Niggas die if they trip.

Like I say, stick to the script.

Blue racks hanging. Alone beats hustler.

Never been to the world. Never known as a buster.

But damn, from the start, you ain't got heart.

I'm 6 '4", swinging your caress, but bang.

My word is my rap. It's my title in the streets.

They treat me for innocence. Get like me.

Niggas get pooped down, laid out, laid flat.

Sprayed max. Tell a motherfucker where the G's at.

Yeah, psychosis, intelligent, infrared shit.

Broad and bred shit. Nickel, spit and lead shit.

That's spread. All Chucks. All major.

Homies and cackies with Latinos or Ben Davis.

All West Coast, the most defiled flinger.

Headbanger, rider, nickel niner. I'ma bang him, ride.

Optimus Prime, Decepticon, Megatron, Ocean Wind.

Caliban, nigga, young God.

I see so many fake -ass niggas.

Prance around, dance and shake that niggas.

I just sit back and watch them change up.

Fuck the bullshit. I'm keeping it gangsta.

Cackers and Chuck Taylors. Stick to the script.

Ragtop and gold daisies. Stick to the script.

Trump knocking with gangsta shit. Stick to the script.

Nigga, that ain't gangsta, bitch. Stick to the script.