Dollaz + Sense-DJ Quik

Mmm Now let＇s get down to business, b**ches Cause it seems like y＇all just keep on tryin to diss this Ni**a that you know that＇s been down for years I＇ve clowned for years, and y＇all could never fade my peers One two three four five six seven Nine, ten, Eiht you can＇t win Cause all the way around ni**a I gets respect and youse a ni**a that can＇t even get no props in your set Tragniew Park you say huh Wanna be rippin, but now it＇s time to do some set trippin So listen close, cause I don＇t want y＇all to miss That I＇m bout to break it down for this b**ch, check it Acacia, Poplar Maple Spruce Cedar Elm Westside trees sprayin all the fleas that＇s from the three and four hundred block P-Funk riders (So *z watch yo＇ a** at that center divider *gun blast*) Now Aaron Tyler, tell my why you seem so tame When I caught you at the airport, shakin like a crap game You looked up and you seen my *z comin And you looked like your b**ch a** was bout to start runnin But all I wanted to do was kick a little coversation (yo whatup) And see if we can fix this little situation But would I f**k you up was what you wondered Yeah, that＇s probably why you changed your little pager number (punk a**) But b**ches like you don＇t grow You can＇t even look me in my eye, let alone go toe to toe And callin me skinny, youse a clown I＇ma call you Theo, cause you weigh ninety-two point three pounds Wack a** actor, movie script killer Fool don＇t you know, Quik is still the ni**a Compton psycho, boy you oughta quit Your records don＇t hit, and b**ches don＇t jock your sh*t You need to stay down you Compton clown and get off of the nuts of the *z with guts Because I＇m down with the Trees, I＇m down with Death Row I＇m down with Black Tone, and I＇m down with the fo＇ So when we cross paths and I hope that＇s soon I＇ma boot your motherf**kin a** to the moon You need to quit bangin under false pretense Cause if don＇t make dollars, it don＇t make sense *chorus* If it don＇t make dollars, it don＇t make sense So don＇t kill game, let the pimpin commence If it don＇t make dollars, it don＇t make sense So don＇t kill game, let the people, commence If it don＇t make dollars, it don＇t make sense So don＇t kill game, let the pimpin commence If it don＇t make dollars, it don＇t make sense Because you gotta give it up to the crown prince Now I＇ma swing it to the right and, right into the left hand Take a deep breath and, cook it like a chef and this is dedicated to the C-P-T No better yet T-T-P, or the *z that look up to me I make it my business, to be that true forever and whenever I can come clever well that＇s my endeavor so whether or not you understand, that there＇s only one DJ Q-U-I-K with no C still you can＇t be me Because I＇m floatin in my Lex and, depositin fat checks and gettin mad sex while I floss the NSX and doin what I wanna, and youse a goner ni**a for thinkin that you can catch me slippin on a street corner Remember Compton＇s in the house, and Quik is in the hood Sippin yak with all my *z cause it＇s tooted good So don＇t knock it til you try it, cause Eiht he tried to knock it But he＇s still walkin round with my nuts in his pocket (beyotch) So put tha P in it represent and sip that Miller And for those of y＇all concerned, this is still Eiht Killa *gun blast* Let me take a load off my scrotum little pest If it don＇t make dollers ni**a, you know the rest *chorus* Now I done sold my f**kin soul to the sh*t that I kick While you groupie a** *z keep on ridin the dick You oughta know that DJ Quik ain＇t your average everyday motherf**ker (hah) Slick like a snake cause I stuck ya Now, I never had my dick sucked by a man befo＇ But you gon be the first you little trick a** hoe Then you can tell me just how it taste But before I nut I shoot some piss in your face you f**kin coward, tremblin like a nervous wreck Cause when I caught your a**, you put yourself in check And when you left my presence, you left expedient You ain＇t no f**kin killer, youse a comedian, beyotch Tell me why you act so scary Givin your set a bad name wit your misspelled name E-I-H-T, now should I continue Yeah you left out the G cause the G ain＇t in you Remember that time you was rollin on the Westside And a little brown bucket pulled up on your side Caught at that light in your Camry in the midst of a REAL killer, tell me did you feel a little nervous (hell yeah) You was in the shadow of death With two trey-five-sevens pointed at your chest, hmm Whatchu gon do, where was your *z that kill at You ain＇t got no killers so kill dat Holdin up your hands and beggin for a pass You lucky they didn＇t just to get to dumpin on yo＇ a** Cause this game you think is funny is some real sh*t So you need to be more careful who you f**kin wit, beyotch! *chorus* (line 4) I＇m through playin with your punk a** Shouts goes out, to my well known road dog What＇s up Dozun Tru, they don＇t understand it baby they can＇t fade us out here on these Compton streets (beyotch) It＇s bigger than they can imagine To the whole entire Death Row family Both sides, whassup *z And my ni**a big Suge, known for keepin sh*t poppin To my ni**a Big J, my little ni**a Hi-C, little straight G And that little singin a** ni**a Danny Boy Y＇all don＇t understand, y＇all can＇t fade this I＇M the first ni**a that was ＂Bangin on Wax＂ Yeah if you remember, nineteen eighty-seven underground tapes And it don＇t stop, and it won＇t stop