Lyrics:

It's on Where they at, where they at, where they at I sold tapes every day me and Freddy B Been famous since 1983 Give me ten dollars, and you straight get blessed A rap all about you called the special request Oakland, you know I go way back To coug nuts, fal stangs, and cadillac's When homeboys put vogues on any car With 6 by 9's smoking burners Everybody got addicted to my dopefiend beat Whole town fucked around and started smoking D Every rap I ever made was about this town I made 7 whole albums with no James Brown And even though I love his music, I just can't stand The way they used it all up and didn't pay the man And after 2 platnum albums, you call me weak Cause I don't sell records in the East Now what's funky, I say pussy on an old hoe I guess y'all fools don't know Why some good rappers can't sell no tapes It's not the company's fault, the shit sounds fake You wanna be in the trunk, with the booming box While the young bitches ride on your jock You can't do it like this homey, so just pass it And stop kissing them white folks asses It's like you smoked a whole damn key You rap so fast you keep leaving the beat I'm from the old school, I love P-Funk But now rap music is all that they want So when I'm in my car, I play Clinton And when I'm on the stage I start pimping And when I hear your shit, I push eject Then I throw it out the window with the rejects And when the hard core rappers go soft I like to watch when they ass fall off Cause ain't nothing worth kicking like a sucka MC And any other rappers ever talk about me I don't stop rapping, that's all they can say And how I dogg bitches, every day But if