The Game – 100 Bars & Runnin’ lyrics

[Intro Skit]

[Verse 1: Game]
Who be, standing on Compton Blvd. in them Gucci's
Drinking a 40, it's me, the nigga with the uzi
Standing by the new 6 with creamy white rocks
White Tee, Dickies and a black fitted White Sox
This ain't Chi-Town but we got a windy city
Cause every bitch and fiend in Compton blow
Dr Dre signed the kid, watch Compton blow
We got a Cali gangbanger with a Yonkers flow
Now the streets is talking, wanna know where Dre found him
In that Impala, the same Impala I keep my pound in
Ain't no telling what the Game will do, muthafucka
I'll blow the guts out the dutch and do the same to you
And just to get shit cracking, I'll drop the toaster
Grab the Louie go Sammy Sosa
And you ain't gotta know me to know that
I hop out a new pink Rolls, with the '52 Pete Rose throwback
Haze in my eyes, listening to Bobby Womack
On the same corner where Eazy E sold coke at
I'm the nigga that'll smoke the purple
Get high as a kite, down half the Grey Goose
And choke one of your workers
Don't make me put two in your shirt
Dog, I'm putting in work
Then move bags like Dooney and Bourke
Then stuff work in the GMC
Cause on my block, I'm the king of rock like Run DMC
And I'll come through in the tan prowler
With guns in the stash
That'll turn your man face into clam chowder
Hold that damn powder, my niggas will squeeze
And bust all night like it's New Year's Eve
So lace your Timbs and polish your Gators
We like odds in Vegas
You can't ball then it's probably the haters
You can't breathe, then it's probably the desert
If you a gangsta or not
I give a fuck dog, bullets is hot
And you can find me in the hood with rocks in the Pyrex
Tan khakis and them Nike Airs with the dyed checks
So you know my CK's in your mommy's hamper
Cause I got a six tre that changes colors like Jolly Ranchers
And Busta Rhymes told me how to make money
If it ain't rap, it's the mac
Run up on you and take money
Now I signed with the 'math, I got out-of-state money
White boy from Yale, Cancun spring break money
Canary yellow diamonds in my chain, take honey
To the Four Seasons, before 4 I'm skeetin'
Before 5 she leaving
I know her man and I know what a four-five will leave him
On Rosecrans bleeding
The old man seen em', and he won't tell
He on a seafood diet and he don't eat shells
Ghost town back on the map, we gon' eat well
Nieces and nephews, Barbie cars with Sprewells
Ask around, they'll tell you I'm good with the raw cane
And skipped college then handle the rock like LeBron James
And I ain't mean to take shots at The Roc, or call names
Tell Jay when he visits LA to call Game
Let him know I squashed that beef, I'm bigger than that
In 5 years, I'm trying to be where Jigga is at
The CPT, that's where me and my niggas is at
Standing by that new Ferrari, liquorish black
And I got a story to tell, my yay talks to me
But, nobody believes that my yay talks to me
Late night in the coupe, Marvin Gaye talks to me
When I'm gangsta leaning, twisting purple haze off Remy
And the rims ain't cost me a penny
Came in the dice game
Z with the white frame and go with the Pumas
Think about it, you can die sooner
Got my 40 from Cincinnati and it throws bullets like boomer
Fuck a rumor, I copped a Lamborghini
Ride with the AC on
Red rag over my face and an Angels beanie
When you see me in the streets, it's real
It ain't no bangin on wax nigga, Compton is back
These rap niggas is hoes, need to holler at Don Juan
Faggot niggas with g strings under their Sean Jean
I'll let em' have it on a Compton strip, clip for clip
Or walk block for block through Harlem with Von Zip
Black Chuck Taylors, canaries shining on my wrist
With a desert and a line and grindin' like The Clipse
And they don't know if I'm a Blood or a Crip
When they see me rock the cherry khaki suit
Inside a smerf blue 6
And the fifth get em' downtown faster than 5 tokens
And put niggas in the ICU like bifocals
And I kill bi-coastal
I'll smash your Jersey
J. Kidd or the yellow and purple
The harder the nigga, the harder the work is
So I get high and listen to Pac's first shit before I write verses
I'm the Shaq on the block, Kobe with the rock
West with the shot, so nickname my johnson "Earvin"
Don't get murdered
I got a Glock in the holster
That'll blow your fucking brains off the top of your shoulders
Dog, I keep it gangsta like I'm supposed to
With a 12 guage shotty and that Testarossa
NWA soldier, I'm no good, I'm so hood
Holla if you wanna die that bad, I bust guns that fast
And I rock my rag, like it's 88 and niggas still rockin' Shaft
So put the hundreds in the bag
Or I'ma put the eagle to your helmet
And the 5th to your chest like Donovan McNabb
I keep 16 in the clip, and I'll let em' all go
Like The Lakers did Elton, Eddie and Nick
We got bricks for 11.5, So many fiends
It's like a nigga been on the same corner since '75
NWA will never die
And I'm Compton's most wanted
100 bars and runnin!
[Outro]
Look what the fuck the wind blew in
Yo Clue, you better let em' know, nigga
This is Aftermath's young gun
Oh, you thought it was hard to get a deal on the west before?
Welcome to them fucking record labels now
If you ain't spitting like The Game
And 10 bars or less, your shit is a frisbee, nigga
So you better be concerned
This is Chuck Taylor, muthafucka
And I'll bring the west coast back by myself if I got to
You don't believe me?
Ask the nigga standing next to you
See what the fuck he got to say
Holla