[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!)
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