Week 20, dedictated to the Eastside RTCs
I see ya, ya’ll know who you are
Good looking on all the support
Ya’ll know what I’m talking ’bout
Can’t nothing stop us though
C.O.B., Treacherous Records, Crooked I

This is for gangstas only
The dance floor’s packed and them things are on me
These cats want to hate cause they dames is on me
I’m strapped in the club so it’s dangerous
I’m anxious, I can’t just
Ice out the rings, I need the bracelets
My main Miss got the diamond C.O.B. anklet
She don’t give me brains kid
Naw she give me face lifts
Then she say I’m on a good diet after she taste it
Back to the basics
Outside of the matrix
Ya’ll ring tone rappers should face it, you ain’t shit
’86 Cutlass the color of coconut cake mix
White tee, new pistol and K-Swiss, yes
Just met a chick fly as Jessica Alba
Say she fuck all night and never mess with the powder
Baby girl possesses a certain essence about her
Maybe or it’s the aura of sex that surrounds her
Now we kicking back sipping fine wine
Found out her kitty cat really has nine lives
What happened man, yo I often wonder
Baby hit me on Myspace, I lost your number
Knowing Crooked won’t trick that’s a big disaster
You know I come cash first, bitches after
No master in business but I got the business mastered
Long Beach is in this bastard
Hi top Vans, creased Dickie shorts
50 quarts of Henny, pretty chrome semi torch
Send you to the city morgue
You’ll be Found On Road Dead like the acronym for any Ford
C.O.B. you got a problem with’ it
Hottest nigga under the brim of a Dodger fitted
That’s my thinking cap but it ain’t no conscience in it
The gun popped, the monster did it, I’m bonkers with it
Then I dip like lobster spinach
Cockpit of a Benz sitting on birds cause it’s ostrich in it
Dear mama, these niggas can’t fuck with me
You can rest comfortably, your son’s a G
Lot of downloads cost but this one’s for free
If you accustomed to busters then you should adjust to me, homey
The C-R my God, the double O nigga
K-E-D, they say he’s me
I’ll televise your demise easy as A-B-C
Leave you dripping like the Jheri curl on AC Green
Told ya how we take over when my day come
You can’t compete unless you got beats from Andre Young
It’s in my genes to get bad bitches, why bang one?
I was born to get more head than Sade’s son
Coast to coast, LA to Chicago
Better ask ’em about Crooked Intriago
GT not the Bentley homey, the Diablo
Young jefe, ese, yeah the head honcho
Top floor of the Le Montrose acting macho
We sitting up a mile high like the Broncos
Me, Mickey and Compo? fucking bomb hoes
That’s how I do it ever since I was a snot nose
I’m the West walking on two legs
Like the motherfucking California map just grew legs