U Shoulda Made A Phone Call

«How much longer, must we share this masquerade?
You don’t knowwww, it’s just a silly little game we play, ohhh»
Yeah, it’s summertime in Cali-FOR-nia, ha ha
I’m sendin a piece of Cali to all my real niggas across the world
My D niggas, NICKEL! Vish', Kino
Mike B, who but me?
My niggas in Jerz, Jumpoff, yeah
My niggas in Brooklyn, Ortiz in the booth holla
It’s a piece of Cali, summertime huh
Yo Eastside up, Westside up
Northside up, Southside up
Lookin like I’m in a U.F.O. when I ride up
Low tires, chrome wires, big pipes fired up (yeah)
I’m on the West Coast, home of the kush smoke
Walkin with a cold diddy-bop like my foot broke
Where the bitches got a bad mouth and good throat
We slang weed but we ball like we push coke
You upset seven days, you mad week/weak
I get more ass than the taxi — the back seat
I slap the ass of a bad freak
And make a palm reader read my future from the print I left on her ass cheek
If it’s sunset I got a dozen whips behind me
If it’s beef I got a hundred Bloods and Crips behind me
Soon as I’m miked up it’s live coverage of the right subject
Me livin my life like FUCK YEAH!
When we rollin, always smokin
Fuck ya momma, fuck ya hoes and
You ain’t get at me when I want
My niggas tie up bandannas and sneak up on ya
Like ayy-ay-AY, do or die
This is a no-fly zone, call it a suicide
You shoulda made a phone call
You woulda been alright, alright
We used to ride Impalas, now we pushin in the Benz
With the Lorenzo kit, and the three-piece rims
My be in Roscoe’s, might be at Eminem’s
This Eastside L.B.C., my nigga
This Pigface Weapon Waist, let me set the record straight
Sceond-rate rappers, your neck and head finna separate
Gettin neck and head, naked sexin on the second date
Eatin eggs and steak, while a fella hella celebrate (yeah!)
This is Gangland, shit is outstandin
My niggas knock yo' ass OUT, without standin
From a wheelchair, uppercut you in the motherfuckin air
You a athiest, you never had a prayer
Slaughterhouse player, you already know though
A pig is our logo, but we ain’t the po-po
C.O.B. is my religion, let the pope know
Cali is a no-fly zone, pick up the phone bro
Why ya wanna… gangsta hate on C, O, B?
Hat pulled low, you know me
Like a 10-K brick of yay a nigga low-key
I be, in the back of the club, I’m in the V.I.P
I’m mackin a slut, let me see some ID
Naw I don’t do the Roman Polanski
One thing a bitch’ll never see (what?) my house key
… Ay, ay — bitches call me DREAM
And say Dominick Rule Everything Around Me
I got love for my hipsters and emo’s
This is G though, this is Deebo
This is street soul, fuck the RICO
Hot as gonorrhea urine in your pee-hole
From here to Indonesia
I rep the two fingers twisted between your pinkie and trigger squeezers
Yeah nigga, you know what it is
You heard it from the boss' mouth
This is C-motherfuckin-O-Bosses
And I’m Sauce the Boss, the prime minister of Watts nigga
And this is a no-fly zone, you get it?
Nigga this a no-fly zone