Tha world is mine ni**a get back Dont f**k with my stack the gage is racked

About to drop the bomb Iam tha motherf**kin don Big fish in a small pond

Now tha feds tryin’ to throw they book at the crook

But I shook they worm and they hook Guppies hold they breath they wanna miss me

When Iam tipsey Runnin everything WEST of the Mississippi

Its the unseen pullin strings wit my pinky ring

We got your woman pucker up

FO we f**k her up

Bow down before I make a phone call

Got 25 niggaz runnin up on ya’ll

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Straight outta Compton, wild style on blast,

Mic in my fist, concrete in my past,

Sirens for lullabies, choppers for drums,

We spit the real so the fake can’t run.

Raiders cap low, eyes on the crown,

Turn the whole world into a showdown town.

From the curb to the curve of the vinyl groove,

We birth the truth that the suits can’t smooth.

Neon saints bleed in my rearview, chrome rosary click-clack—praise the loot.

Bassline baptizes the block, kick drum kicks like a SWAT boot.

Silk durag halo, I’m the ghost that the corner confesses to.

White chalk constellations, every star a testament I drew.

Saint Laurent shroud, .45 crown, preach through the muzzle flash—hallelujah, pew-pew.

Moonlight on the scale, turn a brick to a cathedral pew.

If heaven got a ghetto, I’m the choir that never made it through.

I’m ridin’ dirty through the midnight rain,

neon demons in my rear-view flame.

Got a .45 singin’ ‘long with the bass,

chrome teeth grin in a criminal lace.

Momma said pray, but the streets said bounce,

turned every closed door to a 40-ounce.

I’m a ghost in the hood with a ultraviolet soul,

painting penthouse dreams on a concrete scroll.

Bop-bop, watch the block erupt—

Gangsta bop till the sun comes up.