| We’re far from good
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| Not good from far
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| 90 miles per hour down Compton Boulevard
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| With the top down, screaming we don’t give a f-ck
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| Drink my 40 ounce of freedom while I roll my blunt
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| Cause the kids just aint alright
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| Oh shit niggas
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| Somethin' bout to happen
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| Nigga this shit, nigga this sound like 30 keys under
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| the compton court building
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| Hope the dogs don’t smell it
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| Welcome to vigilante
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| 80? |
| s so don’t you ask me
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| I’m hungry my body’s antsy
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| I’ll rip through your f-cking pantry
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| Peeling off like a? |
| examine my orchestra
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| Granny said when I’m old enough
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| I’ll be sure to be all I can be
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| You niggas Marcus Camby, washed up
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| Pussy fix ya panties
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| I’m Mr. Marcus, you gettin' f-cked, ugh
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| You aint heard nothing harder since Daddy Kane
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| Take it vain, vicodins couldn’t ease the pain
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| Lightening bolts hit ya body, you thought it rained
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| Not a cloud in sight, just the shit that I write strong enough
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| To stand in front of a travelling freight train
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| Are you trained, to go against Dracula
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| Dragging the record industry by my fangs
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| AK clips, money clips and gold chains
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| You walk around with a P90 like it’s the 90? |
| s
|
| Bullet to your temple your homocide’ll remind me
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| Them Compton crip niggas aint nothing to f-ck with
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| Bompton Piru’s aint nothing to f-ck with
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| Compton esé's aint nothin' to f-ck with
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| But they f-ck with me and bitch I love it
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| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woop
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woopty woop woop
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| (California dungeons)
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woop
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woopty woop woop
|
| (California dungeons)
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| Lets hit the county building gotta catch my check
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| Spend it all to a 40 ounce to the neck
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| And in retrospect I remember December being the hottest
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| Squad cars, neighbourhood wars and stolen monsters
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| I tell you mothaf-ckers that life is full of hydraulics
|
| Up and down, get 64 better know how to drive it
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| I’m driving on E with no license or registration
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| Heart racin' racing past johnny because he’s racist
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| 1987, the children of Ronald Reagan raped the leaves off your front porch
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| With a machine blow torch
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| He blowing on stress, hoping to ease the stress
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| He copping some blow hoping that it can stretch
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| New born massacre, hoppin' out the passenger
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| With calendars cause your date coming
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| Run 'em down them he gun em down
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| I’m hoping that you fast enough
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| Even the legs of Michael Johnson don’t mean nothin' because
|
| Them Compton crip niggas aint nothing to f-ck with
|
| Bompton Piru’s aint nothing to f-ck with
|
| Compton esé's aint nothin' to f-ck with
|
| But they f-ck with me and bitch I love it
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woop
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woopty woop woop
|
| (California dungeons)
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woop
|
| Whoopty whoop, woopty woop woopty woop woop
|
| (California dungeons)
|
| Can’t detour when you at war with your city
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| Why run for?
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| Just ride with me, just die with me
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| That gun store, right there
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| When you fight, don’t fight fair
|
| Cause you’ll never win
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| Can’t detour when you at war with your city
|
| Why run for?
|
| Just ride with me, just die with me
|
| That gun store, right there
|
| When you fight, don’t fight fair
|
| Cause you’ll never win
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| Yeah yeah yeah
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| Woah woah wo-wo-wo-woah
|
| Woah woah wo-wo-wo-woah |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Ronald Reagan Era, artist - Kendrick Lamar. Album song Section.80, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп