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The Game - Lookin At You Lyrics

[Hook: Tracey Nelson]
Walking down the street, in my All Stars
In my khaki suit, doin' what I do
Walking down the street, smoking chronic
In my black locs lookin', at you

[Verse 1: The Game]
Guess who's back on the West coast tracks
It's the motherfucking Messiah of gangsta rap
Still dip in the six-fo', still puffin' on the same chronic
Haters mad 'cause I still got it
I'll never fall off, even without the Doc
You niggas sellin' your soul trying to stay on top
Bitch nigga check your Kotex
You niggas ain't moving shit like the hand on a fake-ass Rolex
I'm five million sold
The cover of my last album the only time you see me sittin' on gold
I'm the most anticipated, most celebrated
Most loved and the motherfuckin' most hated
Keep rolling like gold Daytons
Niggas got the game fucked up like Hennessy with a Coke chaser
You gotta deal with me, I'm the West Coast savior
Niggas think of me every time they six-fo' scrapin'

[Spoken Word: Mac Minister]
What do you call a nigga who's overbearing
Belligerent, foul, defiant and very disrespectful?
You call that nigga the Doctor's Advocate
He's a reflection of Dr. Dre in his heyday in the worst way
The five star surgeon general
Took Jayceon to the Aftermath research department
And gave him a blood test
It came back G-A-M-E positive
The nigga's infected with the Game virus
His oratorical skills are so impeccable
That niggas in the streets call him Cyrus
The young damu's down with violence
'Cause in his heart he's a tyrant
It's not a game, it's just called The Game
There'll be no referees, no halftime reports
When the game is over, The Game is over
You can't put a quarter in the machine and get three mo' men
That's the end

[Hook: Tracey Nelson]
Walking down the street, in my All Stars
In my khaki suit, doin' what I do
Walking down the street, smokin' chronic
In my black locs lookin', at you

[Verse 2: The Game]
I done been to hell and back
Left for dead, you know who to thank for that
Finished my second LP without a Dr. Dre track
You can take my soul but can't take my plaques
I'm the motherfuckin' snare when it touch the beat
I'm the 808 drum that got you movin' your feet
I'm the heir to the throne after the D-R-E
Product of my environment, you old-ass niggas
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 off sticky
Throwin' back Patron shots in some creased up dickies
I'm D.O.C. certified, Ice Cube lynch'd me
Snoop stamped me and the good Doc handpicked me
You still with me?
Me and my mic can't be separated like Interscope and-hahaha

[Outro: The Game]
Oh shit
This some good ass motherfuckin' weed
California sticky green!
This is the aftermath for the Aftermath
West, coast!