DJ Quik Follow

Mmm

Now let's get down to business, bitches

Cause it seems like y'all just keep on tryin to diss this

Nigga that you know that's been down for years

I've clowned for years, and y'all could never fade my peers

One two three four five six seven

Nine, ten, Eiht you can't win

Cause all the way around nigga I gets respect

and youse a nigga that can't even get no props in your set

?Trag new park? you say huh

Wanna be rippin, but now it's time to do some set trippin

So listen close, cause I don't want y'all to miss

That I'm bout to break it down for this bitch, check it

Acacia, Poplar Maple Spruce Cedar Elm

Westside trees sprayin all the fleas

that's from the three and four hundred block P-Funk riders

(So niggaz watch yo' ass at that center divider *gun blast*)

Now Erik Titer, tell my why you seem so tame

When I caught you at the airport, shakin like a crap game

You looked up and you seen my niggaz comin

And you looked like your bitch ass was bout to start runnin

But all I wanted to do was kick a little coversation (yo whatup)

And see if we can fix this little situation

But would I fuck you up was what you wondered

Yeah, that's probably why you changed your little pager number (punk ass)

But bitches like you don't grow

You can't even look me in my eye, let alone go toe to toe

And callin me skinny, youse a clown

I'ma call you Theo, cause you weigh ninety-two point three pounds

Wack ass actor, movie script killer

Fool don't you know, Quik is still the nigga

Compton psycho, boy you oughta quit

Your records don't hit, and bitches don't jock your shit

You need to stay down you Compton clown

and get off of the nuts of the niggaz with guts

Because I'm down with the Trees, I'm down with Death Row

I'm down with Black Tone, and I'm down with the fo'

So when we cross paths and I hope that's soon

I'ma boot your motherfuckin ass to the moon

You need to quit bangin under false pretense

Cause if don't make dollars, it don't make sense

*chorus*

If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense

So don't kill game, let the pimpin commence

If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense

So don't kill game, let the people, commence

If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense

So don't kill game, let the pimpin commence

If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense

Because you gotta give it up to the crown prince

Now I'ma swing it to the right and, right into the left hand

Take a deep breath and, cook it like a chef and

this is dedicated to the C-P-T

No better yet T-T-P, or the niggaz that look up to me

I make it my business, to be that true forever

and whenever I can come clever well that's my endeavor

so whether or not you understand, that there's only one DJ Q-U-I-K

with no C still you can't be me

Because I'm floatin in my Lex and, depositin fat checks and

gettin mad sex while I floss the NSX and

doin what I wanna, and youse a goner nigga

for thinkin that you can catch me slippin on a street corner

Remember Compton's in the house, and Quik is in the hood

Sippin yak with all my niggaz cause it's tooted good

So don't knock it til you try it, cause Eiht he tried to knock it

But he's still walkin round with my nuts in his pocket (beyotch)

So put tha P in it represent and sip that Miller

And for those of y'all concerned, this is still Eiht Killa *gun blast*

Let me take a load off my scrotum little pest

If it don't make dollers nigga, you know the rest

*chorus*

Now I done sold my fuckin soul to the shit that I kick

While you groupie ass niggaz keep on ridin the dick

You oughta know that DJ Quik ain't your average everyday motherfucker

(hah) Slick like a snake cause I stuck ya

Now, I never had my dick sucked by a man befo'

But you gon be the first you little trick ass hoe

Then you can tell me just how it taste

But before I nut I shoot some piss in your face

you fuckin coward, tremblin like a nervous wreck

Cause when I caught your ass, you put yourself in check

And when you left my presence, you left expedient

You ain't no fuckin killer, youse a comedian, beyotch

Tell me why you act so scary

Givin your set a bad name wit your misspelled name

E-I-H-T, now should I continue

Yeah you left out the G cause the G ain't in you

Remember that time you was rollin on the Westside

And a little brown bucket pulled up on your side

Caught at that light in your Camry in the midst of a

REAL killer, tell me did you feel a little nervous (hell yeah)

You was in the shadow of death

With two trey-five-sevens pointed at your chest, hmm

Whatchu gon do, where was your niggaz that kill at

You ain't got no killers so kill dat

Holdin up your hands and beggin for a pass

You lucky they didn't just to get to dumpin on yo' ass

Cause this game you think is funny is some real shit

So you need to be more careful who you fuckin wit, beyotch!

*chorus*

(line 4) I'm through playin with your punk ass

Shouts goes out, to my well known road dog

What's up Dozun Tru, they don't understand it baby

they can't fade us out here on these Compton streets (beyotch)

It's bigger than they can imagine

To the whole entire Death Row family

Both sides, whassup niggaz

And my nigga big Suge, known for keepin shit poppin

To my nigga Big J, my little nigga Hi-C, little straight G

And that little singin ass nigga Danny Boy

Y'all don't understand, y'all can't fade this

I'M the first nigga that was "Bangin on Wax"

Yeah if you remember, nineteen eighty-seven underground tapes

And it don't stop, and it won't stop