(Lynch and D-Dubb) 4x 
I re-fuse to lose 
Fuck them 22's 
I got an AP 10 and a throwaway Tech N9ne 
So you know you can't fuck with mine 

If I was standing in the dark letting my nine spark 

Maybe in the morning, motherfuckers might feel me yet 

It's that nine tech nigga that got them motherfuckers tore up 
As I smash of in a seven deuce cut, you holding your gut 
Talking about 
 
What the fuck you smoking on? 
 
All dome as the chronics got me gone 
Nigga it's on 
On 'til the slugs come out 

At night I do my murder red rum so tight 

I'ts the third strike nigga 
So now I'm aiming up at your dome 
'Bout to watch your brain split and hit the Fleetwood Brome 
I'm like Richard Chase, mixed with Al Capone 
If you want some ripgut shit nigga 
Yeah, I got it sewn 
So bone to the crib, or get your wig split fool, with the tech chrome 
And say the alphabet backwards fast or find you a brand new dome 
A criminal minded nigga that gots tefs in his nine 
So head to the East side, 'cause it's red rum time 

Nigga, it's that-Sac of Indo-Killafornia State of mind 
Where niggas put their gangster gear on, and bend corners 
In a Chev 69 
Wire rims 
You can't see me 
With their neighborhood flags and their black Carthart beenie 
I'm like Genie 
As I swoop through the hood and get up to no good 
And I wish you would 
Test my tech, 'cause it loves to take out necks 
And empty backs out, so I max out 
350 on the black top 
More smoke than chronic smoking 
Loced out sherm, classic perm 
In my ashtray, there's always a roach 
Hit the left lane in case one times approach 
I got, 5 warrants and some '89 tags 
17 in the clip of my, auto mag 
so sad 
I gotta watch my back, 'cause these niggas wanna put me up in a 
black 
leather sack, and throw me over their back 
But fuck that 
Why you think I got extended clips 
'Cause I'm so high, most of the time 
I just can't miss, nigga