(First Degree): 
Shit done changed, the strip got bigger 
To make my ends 
I got the wheel and the trigger 
I get my swerve on with the 80 
P liquor The liquor bring out the nigga in this nigga 
Got me huntin' with my musket, barred down with substance 
Bringin' my ruckus to the rival ****as in rival clusters 
I'm still givin' birth to perfect joints, 
I keep it steady 
Still mixin' up with skeet sours, 
I like them heavy 
Heavy'll put a little bass in your voice 
Yamps choice, no 
Rolls Royce but 
I keep it moist 
I keep it saucy, ya bossy bitch talkin' that costly shit 
Bossy bitch think she too flossy to trip 
I'm First mutha****in' 
Degree, not your average, 
I'll have your boulevard hoppin' 
Poppin' off when a baller pack a package of suckin' 
**** you ****in' up duck, stuck like 
Chuck, now, now getcha dome in the trunk 
As we donut, 
I dump, I seen too many moons, took the minds of too many bufoons 
Fools with no clues that love to watch my aura glisten, they still don't listen 
I...I got pot that's hot to trot, can't stop, won't stop 
I got Lynch 
Hung in my backseat sniffin' for cops 
I receipts of tweed purchase, medical purpose, write off at text time 
So ya'll go home, light the smoke, it's relax time 
Chorus: Now 
I apologize for smoke on my mind 
I been workin' hard and 
I got to unwind 
About the 
J.O.A. stayin' in my brain 
But I'm seconds away from goin' insane 
Now I need to lift away (Lynch): 
Now you niggas know 
I come sick like a lunatic 
Man, they must be high cuz they really don't know who they ****in' with 
I used to have them all bombed out 
Drink Alize wine, then rhyme and smoke tweeds till we dropped out 
I got the chop out, no doubt, cuz if it ain't about rappin', gunplay's gon' happen 
Cuz I'm tappin' at yo' window, off that 
Indo, more sacs than 
Santana Better check your antenna on your radio or your stereo or your video 
Cuz I'm not that pretty, but in the bedroom 
I'm critical 
You got your chance, now use 
Hit you with the 
Loaded album, coutesty of 
Siccmade Music 
Evidently you got something against me 
Don't you tempt me, minty smells of the 20 sac of 
Indo, Killafornia's best 
Player haters die a slow death, slow death 
CHORUS (Ice-T): 
I don't wear no 
Chuck Taylors and don't sag my pants 
But I still lift the switch and make this 64 dance 
More niggas with me now than 
I had in the hood 
And they down for whatever and that's all to the good 
Wish you would test my technique and heart, nigga what? 
Nigga, **** that, bitch nigga what? 
Baby, duck! 
What you wanna do now, ya bleedin' from the floor 
Nigga wanted beef, now he wants beef no more 
That's how 
I'm coming 9-6, bitch, rich and mad 
Hoes in bikinis, rag 
Lambroginis, overseer runnin' mad streets 
Creepers with beepers and stash spots for glocks 
And under car 
Escobar style, buck wild, you been there, you know the terrain 
Niggas go insane, tryin' to get the green 
I'm just surviving on the streets with my peeps 
And I'm livin' for the day 
I catch a punk on the creep, yeah 
CHORUS