"I've seen you on the street" "Where you from?" "From Oakland"

		"Nah, you're not from Oakland, I know Oakland"



Let's take a ride with the boy from the Eastside

Where nothing's a crime no roots to a bye-bye

Tired of motherfuckers spitting nothing but drama rhymes

Flapping his lips, and ain't never squeezed a nine

Try to compete with me fool, you ain't competitive

Stop claiming my town, before I give your ass a sedative

Haymaker and uppercuts, hey nigga you weak as fuck

I'm hitting like Tyson, so fool what's up?

You and your boys, you pop a whole lot of weak shit

Yelling "Pooh-Man is flapping" but he's fucking your bitch

Getting ganked by your manager, did for your cash

That's what you get with your uneducated ass

Pooh's the pistol-toting, dank-smoking, bitch-choking

Young player from Oakland

I was taught by O.G.'s fool, what you stressing?

AK's, Mac 12's fool, Smith & Wessons

You got the audacity to false claim where you be

R.I.P. to S-P-I-C-E

You wanna be down with my town but my town ain't down with ya clown

So studio gangster put your motherfucking mic down

I'm coming for your ass, nigga, you're outta pocket

Squeeze the trigger, eight ball in the corner pocket



A lotta stories circulating round town

Seems my peers in this business try to put me down

He said this, she said that

But you know where they talking that fool: behind my back

Never had the guts to step up

And my fans know that I can take a rhyme and change the flow

Somewhat of a realist, cause I stay as real as this

And all those other brothers can do is make a wish

Huh, so I refuse to kiss they ass

I got something better, motherfucker (gunshots)

More and more I find myself in the media

Or maybe on the screen for New Line Cinema

Yeah, your lips are flapping but my bank is still stacking

'93 and I ain't out to do nothing but keep taxing

Punk-ass bitch, you slimy-ass worm

When will you learn you only get what the fuck you earn?

I'm from the town of the motherfucking Mack

Even my bitch draws a big black gat, huh

So all the talking you doing gets you nowhere, player

The "Peace to My Nine" bullshit I just couldn't bear

Here's my glock, listen to me cock it

The trigger is pulled, it's eight ball in the corner pocket



I'm getting tired of my name used in a bad way

Even though I ain't around, these fools got something to say

Claim I'm a thug, I sell drug ficticious

Man I'm telling you, these lies be vicious

And these same motherfuckers be all in my face

'93 I got the pop, and they all want a taste

You see I'm out to get richer, in otherwords more cash

Pooh be coming in first with these niggas coming in last

So I take my nine and my sensor alarm

And I straight go crazy and take his fucking head off

For being all in my fucking mix

You punk motherfucking ass hoe-trusting bitch

Yeah your partner pump you up, you throw your chest in the air

And then you got the nerves to badmouth a player

If I was you I'd shut my motherfucking mouth

Before my partner Little E blow your motherfucking head off

You want some funk nigga, well you got it

It's like eight ball to the corner pocket