متن آهنگ Ronald Reagan Era از Kendrick Lamar

متن آهنگ Ronald Reagan Era از Kendrick Lamar

We're far from good, not good from far Ninety miles per hour down Compton Boulevard With the top down, screamin', "We don't give a fuck" Drink my 40 ounce of freedom while I roll my blunt 'Cause the kids just ain't alright Oh shit, nigga Somethin' 'bout to happen Nigga, this shit, nigga, this sound like thirty keys under the Compton court building Hope the dogs don't smell it Welcome to vigilante, 80's so don't you ask me I'm hungry, my body's antsy, I rip through your fuckin' pantry Peelin' off like a Xanny, examine my orchestra Granny said when I'm old enough, I'll be sure to be all I can be You niggas Marcus Camby, washed up Pussy, fix your panties, I'm Mr. Marcus, you gettin' fucked, uh You ain't heard nothin' harder since Daddy Kane Take it vain, Vicodins couldn't ease the pain Lightning bolts hit your body, you thought it rained Not a cloud in sight, just the shit that I write strong enough To stand in front of a travelin' freight train Are you trained, to go against Dracula? Draggin' the record industry by my fangs AK clips, money clips and gold chains You walk around with a P90 like it's the 90's Bullet to your temple, your homocide'll remind me That Compton Crip niggas ain't nothin' to fuck with Bompton Piru's ain't nothing to fuck with Compton eses ain't nothin' to fuck with But they fuck with me, and bitch, I love it Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop (California Dungeons) Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop (California Dungeons) Let's hit the county buildin', gotta cash my check Spend it all on a 40 ounce to the neck And in retrospect, I remember December being the hottest Squad cars, neighborhood wars, and stolen Mazdas I tell you motherfuckers that life is full of hydraulics Up and down, get a six-four, better know how to drive it I'm drivin' on E with no license or registration Heart racin', racing past Johnny because he's racist 1987, the children of Ronald Reagan Rake the leaves off your front porch with a machine blow torch (I'm really out here, my nigga) He blowin' on stress, hopin' to ease the stress (like, really out here though) He coppin' some blow hopin' that it can stretch New born massacre, hoppin' out the passenger With calendars 'cause your date comin' Run 'em down and then he gun 'em down I'm hopin' that you fast enough Even the legs of Michael Johnson don't mean nothin' because That Compton Crip niggas ain't nothin' to fuck with Bompton Piru's ain't nothing to fuck with Compton eses ain't nothin' to fuck with But they fuck with me, and bitch, I love it Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop (California Dungeons) Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop (California Dungeons) Can't detour when you at war with your city, why run for? Just ride with me, just die with me, that gun store right there When you fight, don't fight fair, 'cause you'll never win (Right, I had the yopper, and I tore they ass up) Can't detour when you at war with your city, why run for? Just ride with me, just die with me, that gun store right there When you fight, don't fight fair, 'cause you'll never win, yeah, yeah, yeah Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa We really out here, my nigga You niggas don't understand, my nigga I'm off a pill and Rémy Red, my nigga Trippin', my nigga