Niggas pistol-poppin' like it's 1999
I was nine, maybe ten, then again, never mind
Press rewind, back in time
Before rappers droppin' dimes
Trap or die, choppin' pies
With clichés all in they rhymes
Now it's Gucci, Prada and anything designer
Money, power, the whole enchilada
Commas, dollas, the greens and the guava
They serve you to your flocka
If you disrespect that blocka, blocka
Choppas on eavesdroppers
Fuck these choppas, I'm about it
Grindin' like 2Pac or Biggie Poppa
Yeah, you outer, but I'm hotter
Car jackin', pistol-packin'
Mothafuckin' choppers clappin'
Metal jacket, automatic magazines, head-on traffic
Fenders smashin', windows crashin'
Pants saggin', fuck your fashion
Yeah, a nigga run Manhattan
Back in Cali's where it happen
They fit Gucci, Escada and anything designer
Groupies, poppers, they all gonna swallow
It was probably the robbers
The goons and the goblins
They hatin' a lot, medulla oblongata.
From New York to San Andreas
And all around the world
Going back to Cali
Yeah, yeah, going back to Cali
New York to San Andreas
I'm screaming, "Fuck the world!"
I'm going back to Cali
Yeah, yeah, going back to Cali, uh
Maserati, like Atari
With no car keys, push to start it
New Bugatti, two Bugattis
Testarossa, blue Ferrari
Lamborghini, system bumpin'
Me no worried; Rastafari
This the hardest, supersonic
Systematic, too retarded
New Versace, new apartment
Bigger closet, newer carpet
Hit departments, cooler garments
Set my goal up, new accomplish
Shootin' targets, you the target
Movin' targets, new accomplice
Killed the game and still regardless
Beat the charges, do the honors.