R. Cali

Niggas pistol popping like it's 1999
I was 9 maybe 10, then again never mind
Press rewind, back in time before rappers dropping dimes
Trap or die, choppin' pies with cliche's all in they rhymes
That was 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 eaves droppers, fuck these choppas I’m about it
Grindin' like 2Pac with Biggie Poppa, yeah you outer but I’m hotter (Right!)
Car jacking, pistol packing, mothafuckin' choppers clapping
Metal jacket automatic magazines head on traffic
Fenders smashing, windows crashing, pants sagging, fuck your fashion
Yeah a nigga run Manhattan, back in Cali's where it happen
It's Gucci, Escada, and anything designer
Groupies, poppers they all gonna swallow
It was probably the robbers, the goons and the goblins
They hating a lot, medulla oblongata

From New York to San Andreas, all around the world
Goin back to Cali, goin back to Cali
From New York to San Andreas, screaming fuck the world
Goin back to Cali, goin back to Cali

Maserati like Atari with no car keys push to start it
New Bugatti, 2 Bugatti's, Testarossa blue Ferrari
Lamborghini, system bumping, me no warried, Rastafari
This the hardest supersonic, systematic, too retarded
New Versace, new apartment, bigger closet, newer carpet
Hit departments, cool it all, must set my goal if you accomplish
Shoot a target cause you the target, moving targets, new accomplish
Kill the game but still regardless, beat the charges, do the honors