Straight outta Compton, wild style on blast,
Mic in my fist, concrete in my past,
Sirens for lullabies, choppers for drums,
We spit the real so the fake can’t run.
Raiders cap low, eyes on the crown,
Turn the whole world into a showdown town.
From the curb to the curve of the vinyl groove,
We birth the truth that the suits can’t smooth.