Studio Gangster

"I've seen you on the street" "Where you from?" "From Oakland" "Nah, you're not from Oakland, I know Oakland" Let's take a ride with the boy from the Eastside Where nothing's a crime no roots to a bye-bye Tired of motherf**kers spitting nothing but drama rhymes Flapping his lips, and ain't never squeezed a nine Try to compete with me fool, you ain't competitive Stop claiming my town, before I give your a*s a sedative Haymaker and uppercuts, hey nigga you weak as f**k I'm hitting like Tyson, so fool what's up? You and your boys, you pop a whole lot of weak shit Yelling "Pooh-Man is flapping" but he's f**king your bitch Getting ganked by your manager, did for your cash That's what you get with your uneducated a*s Pooh's the pistol-toting, dank-smoking, bitch-choking Young player from Oakland I was taught by O.G.'s fool, what you stressing? AK's, Mac 12's fool, Smith & Wessons You got the audacity to false claim where you be R.I.P. to S-P-I-C-E You wanna be down with my town but my town ain't down with ya clown So studio gangster put your motherf**king mic down I'm coming for your a*s, nigga, you're outta pocket Squeeze the trigger, eight ball in the corner pocket A lotta stories circulating round town Seems my peers in this business try to put me down He said this, she said that But you know where they talking that fool: behind my back Never had the guts to step up And my fans know that I can take a rhyme and change the flow Somewhat of a realist, cause I stay as real as this And all those other brothers can do is make a wish Huh, so I refuse to kiss they a*s I got something better, motherf**ker (gunshots) More and more I find myself in the media Or maybe on the screen for New Line Cinema Yeah, your lips are flapping but my bank is still stacking '93 and I ain't out to do nothing but keep taxing Punk-a*s bitch, you slimy-a*s worm When will you learn you only get what the f**k you earn? I'm from the town of the motherf**king Mack Even my bitch draws a big black gat, huh So all the talking you doing gets you nowhere, player The "Peace to My Nine" bullshit I just couldn't bear Here's my glock, listen to me cock it The trigger is pulled, it's eight ball in the corner pocket I'm getting tired of my name used in a bad way Even though I ain't around, these fools got something to say Claim I'm a thug, I sell drug ficticious Man I'm telling you, these lies be vicious And these same motherf**kers be all in my face '93 I got the pop, and they all want a taste You see I'm out to get richer, in otherwords more cash Pooh be coming in first with these niggas coming in last So I take my nine and my sensor alarm And I straight go crazy and take his f**king head off For being all in my f**king mix You punk motherf**king a*s hoe-trusting bitch Yeah your partner pump you up, you throw your chest in the air And then you got the nerves to badmouth a player If I was you I'd shut my motherf**king mouth Before my partner Little E blow your motherf**king head off You want some funk nigga, well you got it It's like eight ball to the corner pocket