Real muthaphuckkin G’s don’t tweet, we creep
through the shadows of Compton, teeth gold, hearts cold,
.45 whisperin’ secrets only ghosts know.
I’m the echo of Eazy in a lo-lo, chrome spokes spin slow—
still knockin’ snitches off bikes like ’93.
Ain’t no hologram, it’s flesh and scandalous breath,
Ruthless stitched in my chest, letter by letter,
every scar alphabet of a vendetta.
Dre day passed, I’m the aftermath that still cut,
OG blood in the cut—sip, savor, spit it back at you.