Mmm
Now let`s get down to business, bitches
Cause it seems like y`all just keep on tryin to diss this
Nigga 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 nigga I gets respect
and youse a nigga 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 bitch, 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 niggaz watch yo` ass 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 niggaz comin
And you looked like your bitch ass 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 fuck you up was what you wondered
Yeah, that`s probably why you changed your little pager number (punk ass)
But bitches 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 ass actor, movie script killer
Fool don`t you know, Quik is still the nigga
Compton psycho, boy you oughta quit
Your records don`t hit, and bitches don`t jock your shit
You need to stay down you Compton clown
and get off of the nuts of the niggaz 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 motherfuckin ass 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 niggaz 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 nigga
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 niggaz 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 nigga, you know the rest
*chorus*
Now I done sold my fuckin soul to the shit that I kick
While you groupie ass niggaz keep on ridin the dick
You oughta know that DJ Quik ain`t your average everyday motherfucker
(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 ass hoe
Then you can tell me just how it taste
But before I nut I shoot some piss in your face
you fuckin coward, tremblin like a nervous wreck
Cause when I caught your ass, you put yourself in check
And when you left my presence, you left expedient
You ain`t no fuckin 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)
