Kendrick Lamar, RZA - Ronald Reagan Era (His Evils) lyrics

We're far from good, not good from far
Ninety miles per hour down Compton Boulevard
With the top down, screamin'
"We don't give a fuck"
Drink my forty-ounce of freedom while
I roll my blunt
'Cause the kids just ain't alright

Oh shit, nigga somethin' 'bout to happen
Nigga, this shit, nigga
This sound like thirty keys under
The Compton court building
Hope the dogs don't smell it

Welcome to vigilante, '80s
So don't you ask me
I'm hungry, my body's antsy
I rip through your fuckin' pantry
Peelin' off like a Xanny
Examine my orchestra
Granny said when I'm old enough


I'll be sure to be all I can be
You niggas Marcus Camby, washed up
Pussy, fix your panties, I'm Mr
Marcus, you gettin' fucked, uh
You ain't heard nothin' harder
Since Daddy Kane take it in vain
Vicodins couldn't ease the pain
Lightning bolts hit your body
You thought it rained not a cloud in sight
Just the shit that I write
Strong enough to stand in front
Of a travelin' freight train
Are you trained? To go against Dracula
Draggin' the record industry by my fangs
AK clips, money clips, and gold chains
You walk around with a P90
Like it's the '90s bullet to your temple
Your homicide'll remind me

That Compton Crip niggas ain't
Nothin' to fuck with
Bompton Pirus ain't nothin' to fuck with
Compton éses ain't nothin' to fuck with
But they fuck with me, and bitch, I love it
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)

Let's hit the county buildin'
Gotta cash my check
Spend it all on a forty-ounce to the neck
And in retrospect
I remember December being the hottest
Squad cars, neighborhood wars
And stolen Mazdas
I tell you motherfuckers that life
Is full of hydraulics
Up and down, get a six-four
Better know how to drive it
I'm drivin' on E with
No license or registration heart racin'
Racin' past Johnny because he's racist
1987, the children of Ronald Reagan
Rake the leaves off your front
Porch with a machine blowtorch
(I'm really out here, my nigga)
He blowin' on stress
Hopin' to ease the stress
(Like, really out here)
He coppin' some blow
Hopin' that it can stretch newborn massacre
Hoppin' out the passenger with calendars
'cause your day comin'
Run him down and then he gun him down
I'm hopin' that you fast enough
Even the legs of Michael
Johnson don't mean nothin', because

Compton Crip niggas ain't nothin'
To fuck with
Bompton Pirus ain't nothin' to fuck with
Compton éses ain't nothin' to fuck with
But they fuck with me, and bitch, I love it
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop, woop-di-woop
Woop-di-woop, woop-di-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)
Can't detour when you at war with your city
Why run for it?
Just ride with me, just die with me
That gun store right there
When you fight, don't fight fair
'cause you'll never win
(Right, I had the yopper
And I tore they ass up)
Can't detour when you at war with your city
Why run for it?
Just ride with me, just die with me
That gun store right there
When you fight, don't fight fair, 'cause
You'll never win, yeah, yeah, yeah

Woah, woah, woah woah woah woah
Woah, woah, woah woah woah woah
Woah, woah, woah woah woah woah
Woah, woah, woah woah woah woah

We really out here, my nigga
You niggas don't understand, my nigga
I'm off a pill and Rémy Red, my nigga
Trippin', my nigga