"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