Tekstovi: Game. Doctor's Advocate. Lookin' At You.

Walkin' down the street in my All Stars
In my khaki suit, doin' what I do
Walkin' down the street, smokin' chronic
In my black locs, lookin' at you

Guess who's back on the West Coast tracks?
It's the motherfuckin' messiah of gangsta rap
Still dip in the six fo', still puffin' on the same chronic
Haters mad 'cause I still got it

I never fall off, even without the Doc
You niggaz sellin' your soul tryin' to stay on top
Bitch nigga, check your Kotex
You niggaz ain't movin' 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 rollin' like gold Daytons
Niggaz got the game fucked up like Hennessey with a Coke chaser
You gotta deal with me, I'm the West Coast savior
Niggaz think of me every time they six fo' scraper

What do you call a nigga who's overbearin'
Belligerent, foul, defiant and very disrespectful?
You call that nigga the Doctor's Advocate
He's a reflection of Dr. Dre in his hay day 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 niggaz in the streets call him Cyrus
The young don who is 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 half time reports
When the game is over, The Game is over
You can't put a quarter in the machine
And get three mo' min', that's the end

I'll walkin' down the street in my All Stars
In my khaki suit, doin' what I do
Walkin' down the street, smokin' chronic
In my black locs, lookin' at you

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 niggaz get ready for your early retirement
Before I let hip hop burn down
I run in the building like a fireman
Who can out spit 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 hahahaha

Oh shit, this some good ass motherfuckin' weed
That California sticky green
This is the aftermath for the Aftermath
West Coast