Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song I'm Looking (studio) , by - The Game. Release date: 12.11.2006
Song language: English
I'm Looking (studio) |
| I’m from Compton where them guns bust, watch Poppa George pop |
| Cats tellin jokes at them car games |
| Seen big face hundreds, handle the rock like Nate Archibald |
| What? |
| This nigga only sixteen |
| And I wanted to be, just like him, middle school fightin |
| Any nigga with a chip on his shoulder, whattup nigga? |
| You want beef with me? |
| Now I let the heat speak for me |
| No more talkin, just outline chalkin |
| Nigga Witta Attitude from birth, «100 Miles and Running» |
| Gunnin bustin shots like fuck the cops |
| Notorious for burnin blocks, weavin in and out of traffic and chop |
| Game the young Robin Hood of the block |
| Steal from the rich, give to the poor, coward niggas rock |
| Second comin of this black Alfred Hitchcock |
| Kick in the door, wavin the four-four |
| Ten shots to your spleen, let them violins sing |
| + (The Game) |
| Yo, I’m just a ghetto nigga stuck in this game, young’uns runnin with 'caine |
| Rain hits so we floodin the game |
| When you come to Compton respect the grounds, leave you shook man |
| (And I look good, from Compton to Brooklyn) |
| Hey yo I don’t give a fuck who you are, fuck ya ice |
| Fuck the block that you claim, fuck your Bentley Azure |
| (Dead presidents is all I represent) |
| ('Til y’all met me y’all niggas ain’t met gangsta yet) |
| Fast cars, money and muscle, the hustle I was brought up in the 80's |
| Gangbangin, dope traffic, shit get crazy |
| From where niggas grow up hard like dicks raised |
| Them hustlin guns like Knicks players, we got mouths to feed |
| 'Til they put flowers on me, moms kiss my cold cheek |
| In that pine box, I’m buyin rocks, eyein cops |
| Fuck a cell block, the young kid makin it happen |
| Who you think got them fiends runnin back like Bo Jackson? |
| I’m a gangsta, what else could I say? |
| I’m ahead of myself like it’s Y4K |
| 2Pac, Scarface, N.W.A |
| Taught me how to dodge them bullets, keep my wig in play |
| Keep fo' snug in the waist or pay a thousand to have 'em |
| Niggas in the street move faster than, Michael Jackson’s album |
| But the shit don’t really matter to me, we get better G |
| Bet the four slow 'em down like PCP |
| Real gangsters never talk shit, handle they business |
| Fuck the dry snitchin and bitchin, niggas die when them bullets fly |
| Who fuckin with him, ha? |
| Not a nigga alive |
| End up dead in that 5 |
| He got no sympathy for them dead guys, friend or foe |
| Watch that chest cave in, what that vest savin? |
| Make it sloppy for the autopsy, leave my enemies in a frenzy |
| On the frontlines holdin a 9 |
| Everyday a new chapter, my own niggas plottin on me |
| Tryin to hit me but they won’t get me, feel the semi first |
| Fuckin with my dough, is the worst way to go |
| Y’all know, niggas cry when them bullets burn slow dummy |
| In and out of spots watchin my money |
| If one dollar come up missin bodies start to come up missin |
| No one too heavy for the Expedition, piss on your corpse |
| Watch your soul shiver, throw him in the river, bitch nigga |