Walkin’ down the street in my allstars
And I look at the suit, doin’ what I do
Walkin’ down the street, smokin’ chronic
And I let loose, Lookin’ at you

Guess who’s back on the westcoast tracks,
It’s the motherfucking messiah of gangsterraps.
Still dippin’ the 6-4, still puffin on the same chronic,
Haters mad ‘cuz I still got it.
I never fall of, even without the Doc,
You niggaz sellin’ your sool trinna stay on top.
Bitch-nigga check yo’ gold tec’s,
You niggaz ain’t movin shit like the hand on a fake-ass rolex.
I’m 5 Million sold, cover of my last album,
the only time you see me sitting on gold.
I’m the most anticipated, most celebrated,
Most loved and the motherfucking most hated.
Keep rollin like gold dayton’s,
Niggaz got the game fucked up like Henessey with a gold tace
You gotta deal with me, I’m the westcoast saver,
Niggaz think of me everytime they 6-4 spray.

What do you call a nigga who’se overparented, denying the firefinding very disrespectful,
You call that nigga the doctor’s advocate.
He’s a reflection of Dr. Dre in his hateday in the worst way,
5-Star searching general, took Jay-Z to the Aftermath research department.
Engagin a blood test, they game, that G.A.M.E. positive.
The nigga’z infected with the game virus.
Who’se overdo able skills are so impeccable, that niggaz on the street call him silenced
You won’t get him down, cuz it is hard using violence on a tiran.
It’s not a game, it’s just called the game,
There be no referees, no half time reports, when the game is over, the game is over.
You can’t put a quarter in a machine and get 3 more men, that’s the end.

I’ll be walkin’ down the street in my allstars
And I look at the suit, doin’ what I do
Walkin’ down the street, smokin’ chronic
And I let loose, Lookin’ at you

I have been to hell and back,
Left for dead, you know who to thank for that.
Finished my second LP without a doctor Dre track,
You can take my songs, but can’t take my plaques.
I’m the motherfucking snare when you touch the beat,
I’m the 8-away drum that got you moving your feet.
I’m the air to the throne after the D.R.E.
Product of my environment, you old ass niggaz get ready for your early retirement,
Before I let hip-hop burn down, I run in the building like a fireman.
Who can outspit me when I’m high of sticky?
Throw it back, patrolshots and some greased up Dickies.
I’m DOC certified., Ice Cube mention,
Snoop stabbed me and the good doc handpicked me, You still with me?
Me and my mic can’t be separated, like Interscope and…
Oh shit! It’s some of that good as motherfucking weed.
That California sticky green, this is the aftermath of the Aftermath. Westcoast!