Lyrics:

We're far from good, not good from far
90 miles per hour down Compton Boulevard
With the top down, screaming, "We don't give a fuck!"
Drink my 40 ounce of freedom while I roll a blunt
'Cause the kids just ain't alright

Oh, shit nigga, something 'bout to happen, nigga, this shit..
Nigga this sound like 30 ki's under the Compton court building
Hope the dogs don't smell it

Welcome to vigilante, 80's so don't you ask me
I'm hungry, my body's antsy, I rip through your fucking pantry
Peeling off like a Xanny, examine my orchestra
Granny said when I'm old enough, I'll be sure to be all I can be
You niggas Marcus Camby, washed up
Pussy, fix your panties, I'm Mr. Marcus you getting fucked, uh
You ain't heard nothing harder since Daddy Kane
Take it in vain, Vicodins couldn't ease the pain
Lightning bolts hit your body, you thought it rained
Not a cloud in sight, just the shit that I write
Strong enough to stand in front of a travelling freight train, are you trained?
To go against Dracula dragging the record industry by my fangs
AK clips, money clips and gold chains
You walk around with a P90 like it's the 90's
Bullet to your temple, your homicidell remind me that...

Compton Crip niggas ain't nothing to fuck with
Bompton Pirus ain't nothing to fuck with
Compton esés ain't nothing to fuck with
But they fuck with me, and bitch I love it
Woop de woop, woop de woop woop, woop de woop
Woop de woop, woop de woop woop (California dungeons)

Let's hit the county building, gotta cash my check
Spend it all on a 40-ounce to the neck and
In retrospect I remember December being the hottest
Squad cars, neighborhood wars and stolen Mazdas
I tell you motherfuckers that life is full of hydraulics
Up down, get a 64, better know how to drive it
I'm driving on E with no license or registration
Heart racing, racing past Johnny because he's racist
1987, the children of Ronald Reagan raked the leaves off
Your front porch with a machine blowtorch (I'm really out here, my nigga)
You blowing on stress, hoping to ease the stress (Like, really out here)
He copping some blow, hoping that he can stretch
Newborn massacre, hopping out the passenger
With calendars, cause your date's coming
Run him down and then he gun him down, I'm hoping that you fast enough
Even the legs of Michael Johnson don't mean nothing, because

Can't detour when you're at war with your city, why run for it?
Just ride with me, just die with me, that gun store
Right there, when you fight, don't fight fair cause you'll never win, yeah
(Right, I had the yapper, and I tore they ass up
We really out here, my nigga, you niggas don't understand, my nigga
I'm off of pill and Remy Red, my nigga, trippin', my nigga)