调:D minor•
Verse 1
Dm
Gm
Dm
Gm
I keep
Dm
it gangsta with two pistols,
I could make you dance
a beam and a treble.
like a teenager with pimples.
money and gunplay
bangin' since the playpen
by some A -men
believe the cinnamon
Head smellin' with a Mac
a little bit of cinnamon
I ain't tryin' to hit the pen again
and all these haters
While you soft like some downulators
but you can never fade us
run your mouth, you can't eat me
The Golden State,
California, ay
to my judgment day
from them yos's to them OG's
rolling in them cold streets
Homies just don't play,
Hollaboy tips hittin' bottles
Gang unit people trippin' on
Middle fingers up, best to fuck em,
How they gonna hate on these bottles?
homies from the sopper
fathers gettin' clowned
Dm
Gm
when you catch these Hollaboy grounds
some solid bottles down
planted on the ground
these homies don't play
it's gettin' sprayed, homie
The Golden State,
West Coast way
California, ay
to my judgment day
kids on a sunny day
So in California,
so watch where you lay
never gonna change this
me with that bullshit
I'm movin',
where we gotta keep that good name
like loose chains
Dm
Gm
Dm
Mr. Criminal on the track,
you know it's official
You know you're fucked
by the sounds of the whistle
we're gonna get you
The Golden State,
West Coast way
who's lipstick shit
to my judgment day
blood's in my blood
I was bound to be a thug
I don't show no love
where them killers reside
and a stripe is compatible
the Three Strikes Capital
gang tats neither
when I got my first heater
got stretched for ten
real G's don't bend
run your mouth, you can't get me
the West Coast way
Who's lipstick shit
to my judgment day
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