Blaaow!

[Intro: Dr. Dre] What the fuck? This shit bangin'! Hey, my nigga Mel-Man told me If you throw a rock at a pack of bitch ass niggas The only one who’s gon’ scream out is the one who got hit So you know what? Fuck all you niggas You, you and you You know [Verse 1: Dr. Dre] Well it’s the D-R, D-R-E and Hitt Mizzy Keep it hot as hell up in LA city Fuck a gang, only set I fear Rollin' fifties, cause they can get me For this heat I’m holdin' with me My golden four fever's a hole in your head leave a Put that ass to sleep, ain't talking 'bout the bed either The home of the red and blue, you need to come clean like Lever - 2000, chronic album, still smokin' For real locin' Much ain't gotta be said to get your shit broken Heart or jaw, I'm hard I'm raw Nothin' to prove to y'all Just dippin' down Compton Boulevard If you didn't help me go platinum or suck my dick, you're useless 8 ball to the gall for y'all who thought that Gatorade was baller juices Saw the Aftermath recruits, rivals labels wanna call truces Try to stall us, send their harlots to seduce us We composed of brawlers, ballers, emcees, producers No losers allowed, don't be confusin' the style Chronic 2000, here and now Blaaow! [Hook: Knoc-Turn'al] We rush Nothing left in the aftermath but dust And niggas like us Stay plush Strapped with automatics that bust On the west coast where snitches and haters Get crushed [Verse 2: Hittman] Man, Dre (What’s up my nigga?) There’s too much shit in the game They put an S in front of Hitt, tryin' to shit on my name Now whoever mouth it came out of, no love In your direction a barrage of slugs at your mug So get bulletproof, won’t serve you as far as protection goes It’s like bare-backin' HIV-positive hoes Hm, you know you’re gonna die And I assume you wanna do so the way you came at H-I Double-T man, see man, this form of trouble could place you in R.I.P.-land Amongst the freelance, harp players The martyrs and the everyday prayer-sayers Try to run shoot at your Jordans, make 'em lose air, air Your game is over player I came to make sure your jersey's retired I'ma throw your going-away party With a church and a choir A hearse and a driver I’m the gun that Dre hired nigga Blaaow! [Hook: Knoc-Turn'al] We rush Nothing left in the aftermath but dust And niggas like us Stay plush Strapped with automatics that bust On the west coast where snitches and haters Get crushed (Nigga blaaow!) We rush Nothing left in the aftermath but dust And niggas like us Stay plush Strapped with automatics that bust On the west coast where snitches and haters Get crushed (Nigga blaaow!)