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Dollaz + Sense
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Mmm
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Now let's get down to business, bitches
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Cause it seems like y'all just keep on tryin to diss this
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Nigga that you know that's been down for years
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I've clowned for years, and y'all could never fade my peers
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One two three four five six seven
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Nine, ten, Eiht you can't win
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Cause all the way around nigga I gets respect
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and youse a nigga that can't even get no props in your set
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?Trag new park? you say huh
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Wanna be rippin, but now it's time to do some set trippin
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So listen close, cause I don't want y'all to miss
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That I'm bout to break it down for this bitch, check it
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Acacia, Poplar Maple Spruce Cedar Elm
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Westside trees sprayin all the fleas
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that's from the three and four hundred block P-Funk riders
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(So niggaz watch yo' ass at that center divider *gun blast*)
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Now Erik Titer, tell my why you seem so tame
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When I caught you at the airport, shakin like a crap game
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You looked up and you seen my niggaz comin
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And you looked like your bitch ass was bout to start runnin
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But all I wanted to do was kick a little coversation (yo whatup)
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And see if we can fix this little situation
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But would I fuck you up was what you wondered
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Yeah, that's probably why you changed your little pager number (punk ass)
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But bitches like you don't grow
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You can't even look me in my eye, let alone go toe to toe
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And callin me skinny, youse a clown
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I'ma call you Theo, cause you weigh ninety-two point three pounds
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Wack ass actor, movie script killer
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Fool don't you know, Quik is still the nigga
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Compton psycho, boy you oughta quit
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Your records don't hit, and bitches don't jock your shit
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You need to stay down you Compton clown
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and get off of the nuts of the niggaz with guts
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Because I'm down with the Trees, I'm down with Death Row
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I'm down with Black Tone, and I'm down with the fo'
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So when we cross paths and I hope that's soon
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I'ma boot your motherfuckin ass to the moon
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You need to quit bangin under false pretense
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Cause if don't make dollars, it don't make sense
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*chorus*
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If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
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So don't kill game, let the pimpin commence
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If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
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So don't kill game, let the people, commence
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If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
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So don't kill game, let the pimpin commence
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If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
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Because you gotta give it up to the crown prince
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Now I'ma swing it to the right and, right into the left hand
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Take a deep breath and, cook it like a chef and
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this is dedicated to the C-P-T
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No better yet T-T-P, or the niggaz that look up to me
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I make it my business, to be that true forever
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and whenever I can come clever well that's my endeavor
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so whether or not you understand, that there's only one DJ Q-U-I-K
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with no C still you can't be me
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Because I'm floatin in my Lex and, depositin fat checks and
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gettin mad sex while I floss the NSX and
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doin what I wanna, and youse a goner nigga
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for thinkin that you can catch me slippin on a street corner
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Remember Compton's in the house, and Quik is in the hood
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Sippin yak with all my niggaz cause it's tooted good
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So don't knock it til you try it, cause Eiht he tried to knock it
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But he's still walkin round with my nuts in his pocket (beyotch)
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So put tha P in it represent and sip that Miller
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And for those of y'all concerned, this is still Eiht Killa *gun blast*
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Let me take a load off my scrotum little pest
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If it don't make dollers nigga, you know the rest
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*chorus*
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Now I done sold my fuckin soul to the shit that I kick
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While you groupie ass niggaz keep on ridin the dick
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You oughta know that DJ Quik ain't your average everyday motherfucker
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(hah) Slick like a snake cause I stuck ya
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Now, I never had my dick sucked by a man befo'
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But you gon be the first you little trick ass hoe
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Then you can tell me just how it taste
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But before I nut I shoot some piss in your face
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you fuckin coward, tremblin like a nervous wreck
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Cause when I caught your ass, you put yourself in check
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And when you left my presence, you left expedient
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You ain't no fuckin killer, youse a comedian, beyotch
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Tell me why you act so scary
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Givin your set a bad name wit your misspelled name
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E-I-H-T, now should I continue
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Yeah you left out the G cause the G ain't in you
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Remember that time you was rollin on the Westside
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And a little brown bucket pulled up on your side
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Caught at that light in your Camry in the midst of a
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REAL killer, tell me did you feel a little nervous (hell yeah)
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You was in the shadow of death
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With two trey-five-sevens pointed at your chest, hmm
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Whatchu gon do, where was your niggaz that kill at
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You ain't got no killers so kill dat
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Holdin up your hands and beggin for a pass
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You lucky they didn't just to get to dumpin on yo' ass
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Cause this game you think is funny is some real shit
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So you need to be more careful who you fuckin wit, beyotch!
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*chorus*
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(line 4) I'm through playin with your punk ass
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Shouts goes out, to my well known road dog
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What's up Dozun Tru, they don't understand it baby
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they can't fade us out here on these Compton streets (beyotch)
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It's bigger than they can imagine
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To the whole entire Death Row family
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Both sides, whassup niggaz
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And my nigga big Suge, known for keepin shit poppin
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To my nigga Big J, my little nigga Hi-C, little straight G
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And that little singin ass nigga Danny Boy
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Y'all don't understand, y'all can't fade this
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I'M the first nigga that was "Bangin on Wax"
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Yeah if you remember, nineteen eighty-seven underground tapes
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And it don't stop, and it won't stop
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-----------------
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Dollaz + Sense
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| DJ Quik |
