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.

Findum, spotum in the neon haze,

peep the sway, spray the prey with gaze;

F**kum—no romance, just sweat and bass,

raw ride, slide, leave no trace.

Flee—tires screech, moonlight flecks,

ashes on my breath, Rolex.

Hoes echo, beats decay,

ghost in the rearview—Eazy fade away.

I’m the voice in the cage, trigger finger on the page,

ink drip like rage, turn the minimum wage to a stage.

No silencer—truth louder than a siren,

wake the block, shake the cop, keep the fire lit.

Express the stress, press it on wax, let it crack the project glass—

every bass line a protest sign, every rhyme a Molotov.

From Compton concrete to your corporate suite,

we speak raw, no edit, no pause—

motherfucker, express yourself or get expressed on.

Straight out the CPT, 808 rattlin’ your brain,

Compton’s in the house, pumpin’ raw voltage through the veins.

Black khakis creased, Charger tires screech—night curriculum,

Eazy in the cut, cube chalkin’ up the pendulum.

Cruisin’ Rosecrans, swap meet watts in the trunk,

Six-four hop, ghetto bird spotlights go thunk.

City of angels got devils on the corner, no hallucination,

We the news at five, live, no censorship station.

So bang this, neighborhood fame—ain’t no counterfeit,

Raise the gang sign high—Compton stay lit.