or
Game

[Chorus]
Walkin' down the street, and ma allstars,
In ma khaki suit, doin' what I do
Walkin' down the street, smokin' chronic,
In ma black lotus, lookin' at you

Guess who's back on the west coast tracks,
Its the mother fucking messiah and gangster raps,
Still dippin' the 6-4, still puffin on the same chronic,
Haters mad 'cause I still got it
I never fall off even without the doc'
You niggas sellin' your soul tryin' to stay on top,
Bitch nigga checkin' kotex,
You niggas ain't movin' shit like the hand on a fake ass Rolex
I'm 5 million sold the cover of my last album
The only time you see me sittin' on gold
I'm the most anticipated, the most celebrated
The most loved and the mother fuckin most hated,
Keep rollin' like gold Daytons
Niggas got the game fucked up like Hennessey with a coke chaser,
You gotta deal with me I'm the west coast savior
Niggas think of me every time they 6-4 scrape,

What do you call a nigga whose older,
Parody, belligerence, foul defined,
And very disrespectful, you call that nigga a doctor's advocate,
He's a reflection of Dr. Dre in his hey day in the worst way,
The 5 star surgeon, general took Jayson
To the aftermath research department,
And gave 'em a blood test, that came back G-A-M-E positive,
The niggass infected with the game virus,
His oratorical skills are so impeccable, that niggas in the street call him Sirus,
The young Damu is down with violence cause in his heart hes a tyrant
Its not a game, its just called the game,
There will be no referee, no half time report,
When the game is over, the game is over,
You cant put a quarter in the machine and get 3 more men,
Thats the end

[Chorus]

I'd of been to hell and back, left for dead, you know who to thank for that,
Finished my second LP without a Dr. Dre track,
You can take my soul but you can't take my plaques,
I'm the mother fuckin' snare when you touch the beat,
I'm the 808 drum that got you movin' your feet,
I'm the heir to the throne after the D-R-E,
Product of my environment you old ass niggas get ready for your early retirement,
Before I let hip-hop burn down ill run in the buildin' like a fireman
Who can out spit me when I'm high off sticky,
Throwin' back Patron shots in some creased up Dickies
I'm D.O.C certified, ice cube lenched me, snoop stamped me and the good doc hand picked me,
You still wit me? me and my mic can't be separated like Interscope and

Good shit
Some good ass mother fuckin' weed
The California sticky green
This is the aftermath of the aftermath
West coast!

Written by TAYLOR, JAYCEON / POPE, ERVIN
Published by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Lyrics Provided By LyricFind Inc.