corrija a letra Letra Ronald Reagan Era (His Evils) por Kendrick Lamar

Featuring(s) : RZA

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Letra

We're far from good, not good from far
90 miles per hour down Compton Boulevard
With the top down, screaming "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 30 ki's 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 getting fucked, uh
You ain't heard nothin' harder since Daddy Kane
Take it in vain, Vicodins couldn't ease the pain
Lightnin' 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 travellin' 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 homicide'll remind me that

Compton Crip niggas ain't nothin' to fuck with
Bompton Pirus ain't nothin' to fuck with
Compton éses ain't nothin' to fuck with
But they fuck with me, and bitch I love it
Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop, woop de woop
Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop (California Dungeons)
Woop de woop, woop de woop-woop, woop de woop
Woop de woop, woop de 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 mothafuckas that life is full of hydraulics
Up and down, get a 64, better know how to drive it
I'm drivin' on E with no license or registration
Heart racin', racin' past Johnny because he's racist
1987, the children of Ronald Reagan, rake the leaves off
Your front porch with a machine blowtorch (I'm really out here, my nigga)
He blowin' on stress, hopin' to ease the stress (Like, really out here)
He copping some blow, hopin' that it can stretch
Newborn massacre, hopping out the passenger
With calendars, cause your date's comin'
Run him down and then he gun him down, I'm hopin' that you fast enough
Even the legs of Michael Johnson don't mean nothin', because

Can't detour when you're 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 yapper, and I tore they ass up

Can't detour when you're 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)

Whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah
Whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah
Whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah
Whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah

We really out here, my nigga, you niggas don't understand, my nigga
I'm off of pill and Remy Red, my nigga, trippin', my nigga

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