* Aimed at Spice 1
I`ve seen you on the street Where you from? From Oakland
Nah, you`re not from Oakland, I know Oakland
Let`s take a ride with the boy from the Eastside
Where nothing`s a crime no roots to a bye-bye
Tired of motherfuckers spitting nothing but drama rhymes
Flapping his lips, and ain`t never squeezed a nine
Try to compete with me fool, you ain`t competitive
Stop claiming my town, before I give your ass a sedative
Haymaker and uppercuts, hey nigga you weak as fuck
I`m hitting like Tyson, so fool what`s up?
You and your boys, you pop a whole lot of weak shit
Yelling Pooh-Man is flapping but he`s fucking your bitch
Getting ganked by your manager, did for your cash
That`s what you get with your uneducated ass
Pooh`s the pistol-toting, dank-smoking, bitch-choking
Young player from Oakland
I was taught by O.G.`s fool, what you stressing?
AK`s, Mac 12`s fool, Smith & Wessons
You got the audacity to false claim where you be
R.I.P. to S-P-I-C-E
You wanna be down with my town but my town ain`t down with ya clown
So studio gangster put your motherfucking mic down
I`m coming for your ass, nigga, you`re outta pocket
Squeeze the trigger, eight ball in the corner pocket
A lotta stories circulating round town
Seems my peers in this business try to put me down
He said this, she said that
But you know where they talking that fool: behind my back
Never had the guts to step up
And my fans know that I can take a rhyme and change the flow
Somewhat of a realist, cause I stay as real as this
And all those other brothers can do is make a wish
Huh, so I refuse to kiss they ass
I got something better, motherfucker (gunshots)
More and more I find myself in the media
Or maybe on the screen for New Line Cinema
Yeah, your lips are flapping but my bank is still stacking
`93 and I ain`t out to do nothing but keep taxing
Punk-ass bitch, you slimy-ass worm
When will you learn you only get what the fuck you earn?
I`m from the town of the motherfucking Mack
Even my bitch draws a big black gat, huh
So all the talking you doing gets you nowhere, player
The Peace to My Nine bullshit I just couldn`t bear
Here`s my glock, listen to me cock it
The trigger is pulled, it`s eight ball in the corner pocket
I`m getting tired of my name used in a bad way
Even though I ain`t around, these fools got something to say
Claim I`m a thug, I sell drug ficticious
Man I`m telling you, these lies be vicious
And these same motherfuckers be all in my face
`93 I got the pop, and they all want a taste
You see I`m out to get richer, in otherwords more cash
Pooh be coming in first with these niggas coming in last
So I take my nine and my sensor alarm
And I straight go crazy and take his fucking head off
For being all in my fucking mix
You punk motherfucking ass hoe-trusting bitch
Yeah your partner pump you up, you throw your chest in the air
And then you got the nerves to badmouth a player
If I was you I`d shut my motherfucking mouth
Before my partner Little E blow your motherfucking head off
You want some funk nigga, well you got it
It`s like eight ball to the corner pocket
