Runnin' up in the corner store, ski masks on, barrels pointed, it's been done before. Four niggas lookin' to score, they know we get money, but we need more. Duct tape for the screamin' bitch, pistol whip the cashier, fill the bag, startin' to feel rich. Another come up without a hitch, runnin' back to the six-tre, in the driver seat. Who's that drivin'? It's yo bitch. She know we get this money legit. Ain't tellin' you shit. Cuz you just another snitch. Mobbin' back to the crib, can't help ourselves, ignorant to the core. Passin' to many marks, gotta jump out the bucket, smack the neighborhood up, leave you lyin' on the floor. All these pockets to explore, it's somethin' we can't ignore. Now. Jumpin' back in the bucket while it's still rollin', don't let us catch you roamin'. Up and down the West Coast we patrollin'. Countin' all this money, thinkin' you got it made, we come flip the script. Have yo wings clipped, find yo racks stripped. Somethin' you can't predict. That's just how it go in the Bay, from the Seven-Oh-Seven to the Six-Two-Eight. The place to be in the middle of Californ-I-A, where them gangsta ass niggas play. Pay us our dues bitch, we do this all day. Keep it straight otherwise it'll be a one eight, seven. Find yo ass knockin' on the doors of heaven, don't even try to question, you won't get a mention. Except from my four five, straight off the side of my hip. Have blood drippin' down ya lip. Send you six feet down, straight to the crypt. Tryin' to explain to a higher power, how you was just bein' a bitch. Another sunset, another hood to beat down, better know when we come around. We comin' for the money, runnin' up in yo studio, smackin' up a buncha clowns. Have you face down, snatch yo chains, and yo diamond rings. Grab yo bitch then we bounce. You was talkin' that shit and now you know, four niggas finna be at your front door. Bangin' our set, ya'll already heard it before.
