[DJ Quik]   Ain't nothin like poppin the brains on a Corvette   With your pet in the passenger seat   Ass at your feet, askin if you can pass her the weed   (Faster please) California masterpiece   Recorded partially in New York   With a blue spark on a purple plant and I worked your aunt   (She loved it) primarily under the circumstance   Don't be mad, I was bad, she was better, sweaty palms   But I bet her and she told your moms and wrote a letter   Now they comin back to get off of the curb   because I swerved on her (beat it bitch!)   I ain't never been shit, that's what my mommy said   Now they callin to check to see if I took the gun from under my bed   She don't trust me, I don't trust me, my psychiatrist don't trust me   And I ain't called 'em back, I hope the cops don't come and bust me   I'm feelin lusty and my purple video tape is trusty   But I can't go to sleep with lotion on because I might get musty   I ride motorcycles and crash 'em on purpose   into a crowd of bystanders so my insurance policy won't be worthless      [Chorus]   Now quit that bitch shit, we gon' fuck you up mayne   We gon' fuck you up mayne, now get the fuck outta Dodge   It ain't gon' work mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne   We gon' fuck you up mayne, don't make me pull the pump out the garage   And posse up mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne   We gon' fuck you up mayne, you must be high on that sherm   But you gon' learn mayne, we gon' fuck you up mayne   We gon' fuck you up - WE GON' FUCK YOU UP!      [DJ Quik]   Bridget Bridget Bridget was a girl that I knew   But she's a dumb hoe, and baldheaded like DJ Pooh   Her saggy body tried to crash the party like Mobb Deep   With her elephant feet   I got a whole lot to say but it won't come out   Probably because I got this 38 in my mouth   And I'm pissed, I'm 'bout to nut up, fuck you nigga shut up   Like Mausberg, I'll leave your chest burnin on the curb   Hennessy to XO, crashed in the Lex-o   I make the bridge flex 'til these bitch niggaz let go   And I'm upset because I'm all alone   Homies don't play by the rules, fuck 'em then I'm glad they gone   Pluck 'em out the flowerpot, flush and make they shower hot   Blister and scour, I'm pistol-whippin with power, make 'em holla like chicks   Out in L.A. ain't nuttin good to talk about   Except dead homies, and how in '82 we had all the money   That's Freeway Rick and that C.I.A. shit   22 years later, it's just some ol' player hater shit   How many gangs can kill people under the age of 12   Get snitched on and go to jail, for another 22 years   And who gets recognized for pouring out the beer   And how many young blacks drink and smoke to cover they fear   It's fucked up      [Chorus]      [DJ Quik]   I made my momma a promise that I would make it home honest   She knew that there were no problems cause she could see right through it   She know I'm deeper than half of these niggaz, flyer than most of 'em   And that's as clear as you can see from off in your coast   And you niggaz don't understand these 16 bars from within   If being dope is an abomination then I am a sin   Cause I'm fly like the wind, and I'm high to the end   My enemies are my used-to-be friends, where do I begin   It's a sesspool of stress, you cowards drink from the well   Got no energy for haters, you suckers can't give me hell   Cause you whack and you stale, and you act like you bail   You talk that shit 'til you gotta prove shit, get smacked when you fail   In the midst of it all I'm just persistin to ball   While these haters tumble and stumble and bumble and fall   I'm the key to cut your meter off, I'll blow what you worth   And befo' anything else on this earth - YOU'LL GET FUCKED UP!      [Chorus]