Mmm
 Now let's get down to business  bitches
 Cause it seems like y'all just keep on tryin to diss this
 Nigga that you know that's been down for years
 I've clowned for years  and y'all could never fade my peers
 One two three four five six seven
 Nine  ten  Eiht you can't win
 Cause all the way around nigga I gets respect
 and youse a nigga that can't even get no props in your set
 ?Trag new park? you say huh
 Wanna be rippin, but now it's time to do some set trippin
 So listen close, cause I don't want y'all to miss
 That I'm bout to break it down for this bitch, check it
 Acacia, Poplar Maple Spruce Cedar Elm
 Westside trees sprayin all the fleas
 that's from the three and four hundred block P-Funk riders
 (So niggaz watch yo' ass at that center divider *gun blast*)
 Now Erik Titer, tell my why you seem so tame
 When I caught you at the airport, shakin like a crap game
 You looked up and you seen my niggaz comin
 And you looked like your bitch ass was bout to start runnin
 But all I wanted to do was kick a little coversation (yo whatup)
 And see if we can fix this little situation
 But would I fuck you up was what you wondered
 Yeah, that's probably why you changed your little pager number (punk ass)
 But bitches like you don't grow
 You can't even look me in my eye, let alone go toe to toe
 And callin me skinny, youse a clown
 I'ma call you Theo, cause you weigh ninety-two point three pounds
 Wack ass actor, movie script killer
 Fool don't you know, Quik is still the nigga
 Compton psycho, boy you oughta quit
 Your records don't hit, and bitches don't jock your shit
 You need to stay down you Compton clown
 and get off of the nuts of the niggaz with guts
 Because I'm down with the Trees, I'm down with Death Row
 I'm down with Black Tone, and I'm down with the fo'
 So when we cross paths and I hope that's soon
 I'ma boot your motherfuckin ass to the moon
 You need to quit bangin under false pretense
 Cause if don't make dollars, it don't make sense

 *chorus*

 If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
 So don't kill game, let the pimpin commence
 If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
 So don't kill game, let the people, commence
 If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
 So don't kill game, let the pimpin commence
 If it don't make dollars, it don't make sense
 Because you gotta give it up to the crown prince

 Now I'ma swing it to the right and, right into the left hand
 Take a deep breath and, cook it like a chef and
 this is dedicated to the C-P-T
 No better yet T-T-P, or the niggaz that look up to me
 I make it my business, to be that true forever
 and whenever I can come clever well that's my endeavor
 so whether or not you understand, that there's only one DJ Q-U-I-K
 with no C still you can't be me
 Because I'm floatin in my Lex and, depositin fat checks and
 gettin mad sex while I floss the NSX and
 doin what I wanna, and youse a goner nigga
 for thinkin that you can catch me slippin on a street corner
 Remember Compton's in the house, and Quik is in the hood
 Sippin yak with all my niggaz cause it's tooted good
 So don't knock it til you try it, cause Eiht he tried to knock it
 But he's still walkin round with my nuts in his pocket (beyotch)
 So put tha P in it represent and sip that Miller
 And for those of y'all concerned, this is still Eiht Killa *gun blast*
 Let me take a load off my scrotum little pest
 If it don't make dollers nigga, you know the rest

 *chorus*

 Now I done sold my fuckin soul to the shit that I kick
 While you groupie ass niggaz keep on ridin the dick
 You oughta know that DJ Quik ain't your average everyday motherfucker
 (hah) Slick like a snake cause I stuck ya
 Now, I never had my dick sucked by a man befo'
 But you gon be the first you little trick ass hoe
 Then you can tell me just how it taste
 But before I nut I shoot some piss in your face
 you fuckin coward, tremblin like a nervous wreck
 Cause when I caught your ass, you put yourself in check
 And when you left my presence, you left expedient
 You ain't no fuckin killer, youse a comedian, beyotch
 Tell me why you act so scary
 Givin your set a bad name wit your misspelled name
 E-I-H-T, now should I continue
 Yeah you left out the G cause the G ain't in you
 Remember that time you was rollin on the Westside
 And a little brown bucket pulled up on your side
 Caught at that light in your Camry in the midst of a
 REAL killer, tell me did you feel a little nervous (hell yeah)
 You was in the shadow of death
 With two trey-five-sevens pointed at your chest, hmm
 Whatchu gon do, where was your niggaz that kill at
 You ain't got no killers so kill dat
 Holdin up your hands and beggin for a pass
 You lucky they didn't just to get to dumpin on yo' ass
 Cause this game you think is funny is some real shit
 So you need to be more careful who you fuckin wit, beyotch!

 *chorus*
 (line 4) I'm through playin with your punk ass

 Shouts goes out, to my well known road dog
 What's up Dozun Tru, they don't understand it baby
 they can't fade us out here on these Compton streets (beyotch)
 It's bigger than they can imagine
 To the whole entire Death Row family
 Both sides, whassup niggaz
 And my nigga big Suge, known for keepin shit poppin
 To my nigga Big J, my little nigga Hi-C, little straight G
 And that little singin ass nigga Danny Boy
 Y'all don't understand, y'all can't fade this
 I'M the first nigga that was "Bangin on Wax"
 Yeah if you remember, nineteen eighty-seven underground tapes
 And it don't stop, and it won't stop