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The Game

My Flag/Da Homies – The Game

Part I: My Flag

[Produced By DJ Mustard]

[Hook: Game]
Maybe I should iron out my flag
Maybe I should put another crease in it
Maybe I should iron out my flag
If you gang banging who you beefing with?

[Verse 1: Game]
I Know your baby never hurt nobody
But he got his ass smoked at that Mustard party
OG Blood, everybody know me when I came in with the little homies, Skeme!

[Verse 2: Skeme]
Get out the way yo, get out the way yo
That nigga duke just moved an ounce of yayo
And you know I keep gunners on the payroll
I even fucked with Mitchy Slick down in Daygo
Young General these niggas gotta spray for
You fuck around and catch 20 out this Range Ro’
Mane that beef shit is what a nigga made for
I open fire on her open mouth, case closed
Came in this bitch with Chuck Taylor’s screaming fuck haters
Bad bitch I’ma fuck later, tryna touch paper
In a 6 tray rag going brazy up the ave
What I’m drinking got me thinking, nigga maybe I should iron out my –

[Hook: Game]
Maybe I should iron out my flag
Maybe I should put another crease in it
Maybe I should iron out my flag
If you gang banging who you beefing with?

[Verse 3: Jay 305]
It’s anybody killa, that’s for anybody nigga
Mainline, waistside, westside nigga
Fuck peace, this for Crenshaw kings
Sockin’ out niggas, tall as Yao Ming
Lowkey is on drop, give a fuck bout whatcho mama
When it’s on, it’s on, pop it like a bottle of patron
Then lay back with a bitch, man this is westside Jay 3-0 fifth
No gimmicks, God damn

[Verse 4: Mitchy Slick]
I won’t stop being a blood to gangland
To my dope then kicked in locked up in a strange land
So when they be like, “Slick, why we ain’t see you on TV or nothin’?”
Shit, I’m still tryin’ get off the gang injunction
Cause when it come to this been, I’m a monster to your leaf
You can do a whole damu documentary on just me
Call it “The Life of a Hundred Percent Real Whooper”
They did it for the grams, moves and the hush
Yeah Dat

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[Hook: Game]
Maybe I should iron out my flag
Maybe I should put another crease in it
Maybe I should iron out my flag
If you gang banging who you beefing with?

[Verse 5: Joe Moses]
I put the woop in the woop like my DLB’s
All I know is VNG’s and FTB’s
I ran fades back to back, that’s on STB
And if you claimin’ you a blood, shit, you better know me
Big homie gave me a gun and said “It better be empty”
I was eleven years old with a motha’fuckin’ fifty
I got love for certain niggas, I’ve been doing this since knee high
And you ain’t a real blood if you didn’t bang at the beehive

[Verse 6: RJ]
Westside AM, back in a straight jacket
Mister LA back, free my A track
Middle of July, I’m just tryin’ bring a Maybach
Whole city riding, I ain’t even did a Dre track
Nigga this Athens, Miller gang mad
So east coast niggas be like “Cuh, you crackin’.”
Niggas ain’t goin’ hard, as you should stop rappin’
I’ma be the street rider till the casket

[Hook: Game]
Maybe I should iron out my flag
Maybe I should put another crease in it
Maybe I should iron out my flag
If you gang banging who you beefing with?

Part II: Da Homies

[Intro : The Game & RJ]
The Game – RJ, what’s that shit we was doing the other day blood to that uh, to that Mustard beat when the homie was beating on his chest and shit?
RJ – Oh you talkin’ bout that uh, that uh
The homies in the cut that’s on E, niggas turnt up and we bout to hit the street (Mumbling)
The Game – Ay the blood, ay take blood drink. Give me that mutha’fuckin’ weed blood. Ay duke, do that shit blood

[Hook : RJ]
The homies in the cut that’s on E, niggas turnt up and we bout to hit the street
The homie on probation, make him sit up in the back
Bout to hit the weed spot and get another sack
I said, the homies in the cut that’s on E, down for whatever cuz the homies roll deep
Finger on the trigger, bandana round the Mac
Ride through the hood with a cup full of ‘gnac

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[Interlude]
Ay nigga, lemme hit the weed
Where the fuck you get this bud from homie?
Ay, we about to run outta gas my nigga

[Hook : RJ & Ty Dolla $ign]
The homies in the cut that’s on E, niggas turnt up and we bout to hit the street
The homie on probation, make him sit up in the back
Bout to hit the weed spot and get another sack
I said, the homies in the cut that’s on E, down for whatever cuz the homies roll deep
Finger on the trigger, bandana round the Mac
Ride through the hood with a cup full of ‘gnac

[Verse 1 : AD]
Im a real Compton Crip I hope you niggas get the message
Leave them 16’s open, i’ll make them look bad on records
Chuck told me “I’m Good”, now I’m headed down to the Cedars
After that, straight to the hood where them tanas holding them heaters
Look, sagging down the A-Line, war fuck it no play time
Hit my first tour I was still chuckin’ up gang signs
Homies still cooking them cops hop out with K9
Lot of rappers’s callin’ out names, nigga don’t say mine
The homies in the cut that’s on E
Some niggas bang the C some niggas bangin’ the P
I’m really in the streets you other niggas is weak
On my mama and the hood, fuck around and Ya rest in peace
Especially when the homies in the cut that’s on E

[Hook : RJ & Ty Dolla $ign]
The homies in the cut that’s on E, niggas turnt up and we bout to hit the street
The homie on probation, make him sit up in the back
Bout to hit the weed spot and get another sack
I said, the homies in the cut that’s on E, down for whatever cuz the homies roll deep
Finger on the trigger, bandana round the Mac
Ride through the hood with a cup full of ‘gnac

READ  My Life (Feat. Lil Wayne) - The Game

[Outro Skit]
AD : Say nigga, that little nigga’s right there cuz
Person 2 : Where nigga?
AD : Right across the street loc. Man I told these niggas the last time they keep pullin’ em over here there gonna be problems cuz
Ay cuz, turn that fuckin’ music down nigga
Tired of these niggas comin’ over here and shit nigga
Turn the lights on, man turn the lights on!
Man pull up nigga, I said pull up cuh!
Person 2: Hold on, hold on, they look like One Time
(Sirens blare)
Oh fuck cuh
(Police in background): This is the Compton Police
AD : Man I knew I shouldn’t have rolled witchu niggas, I’m about to get life cuz
Person 1: Life? Cuz they bout to put me on the row nigga
(Pol. in back) Put your (?)
Person 2: Aight!
(Pol. in back) Shut it off asshole!
AD : It’s off cuh
Game: Hey look at blood an them get jacked by the ones
Person 4: Ha ha ha nigga don’t drop that soap nigga
Game: Bitch ass niggas in ya own hood nigga
(laughing)
Game: Nigga hit the switch nigga (Car hydraulics activate) Get back to 05′ on these niggas blood
Person 4: Woo
(Driving away)
Person 2: I ain’t goin’
AD : Shh
Person 2: Fuck that nigga cuz I swear to god I ain’t goin’
AD : The fuck you mean you ain’t going?
Person 2: I ain’t going back to the pen cuz I can’t
AD : Nigga what the fuck we gon’ do then?
Person 2: I don’t know about you niggas but I’m going out
AD : Fuck it then cuh, on Compton Crip! Kick the door open!
(Sounds of slamming and gunshots)
AD : Fuck the police!!

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The Game

Church for Thugs – The Game

[Verse 1]
To all my niggas on the porch getting their hair braided
Corn rolled by a L.A. bitch
And I can’t forget
My niggas riding the train Yankee fitted
Thermals under that Pelle shit
I love New York but gangbanging that’s L.A. shit
And I’m proud of it
Spit it through the wire so the crowd love it
Haters you know who you are you can turn it down fuck it
I can shoot a video to it and spend half the budget
I’m gangsta, let the .40 cal blow in public
More hatred inside my soul than Pac had for Delores Tucker
Every time one of my niggas get shot the more I suffer
Cause we trapped inside a world where your forced to die for your colors
I seen it all through the Range tints
Got niggas doing life in the state pen
So I dread like Jamaicans
If I die for one of my statements
Than break up the streets of Compton and spill my blood in the pavement

[Hook]
Believe me niggas keep sayin they gon heat me up
Talking that shit like they goin lay me down
And then I come through strapped to see what’s up
Niggas really don’t want no parts of me pal

Niggas keep sayin they gon heat me up
Talking that shit like they goin lay me down
And then I come through strapped to see what’s up
Niggas really don’t know parts of me pal

[Verse 2]
Who I gotta talk to who I gotta write
Get my Reebok deal done
Or I’m stayin’ in Air Nike’s
Aiight, I handle bars you ain’t gotta ride a bike
To peep game and his skill here go some training wheels
Let’s roll
Through the city of god
Where LA niggas train to kill
Chop you up hundred times worse than the Haitians will
For real naw Pharrell I need a track homie
Dre we to close aint no turning back homie
Deal with it I’m a be here for ten years
Spittin like the ghost of Eric Wright and Big yeah
Let me paint this picture
While you sit here thinking in the back of your mind this is the shit yeah
I spit for you niggas doing 25 on they 5th year ready to throw a nigga off the 5th tier
Them white boys in the Abercrombie and Fitch gear
And every nigga who ever helped me get here

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[Hook]
Believe me niggas keep sayin they gon heat me up
Talking that shit like they gon lay me down
And when I come through strapped to see what’s up
Niggas really don’t want no parts of me pal

Niggas keep sayin they gon heat me up
Talking that shit like they gon lay me down
And when I come through strapped to see what’s up
Niggas really don’t know parts of me pal

[Verse 3]
One brick, two brick
The boy moving weight
Now three bricks, four bricks
I’m driving upstate
Five Bricks, six bricks
The nigga got cake
Not rap money, but money been rap since ‘88
Look at the world we live in
Niggas steady hate, to the heckler at Koch
Leave him chopped up like freddy’s face
Niggas catching feelings
Cause I’m about millions
And outta all the newcomers out, my flow’s the illest
You a close second nigga,
A banana to a guerilla
Put us in the same cage and I’ma have to peel ‘em
The best of both worlds
Rapping and drug dealing
Run and tell the chief I came to burn down the village
The head honcho, staring out the third story window
Of my Beverly Hills condo
With two long ass heats
I call ‘em Shaq and Alonzo
You niggas want me outta L.A.
Yeah I know

[Hook]
Believe me niggas keep sayin’ they gon’ heat me up
Talking that shit like they gon’ lay me down
And when I come through strapped to see what’s up
Niggas really don’t want no parts of me pal

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Niggas keep sayin’ they gon’ heat me up
Talking that shit like they gon’ lay me down
And when I come through strapped to see what’s up
Niggas really don’t know parts of me pal

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The Game

Money – The Game

[The Game]
Kanye told me that “Jesus Walks” in ’04
But I grew up around Impala’s and drug lords
Welcome to Los Angeles, palm trees and drug stores
All we know is rocks and presidents like Mount Rushmore
Fuck the police, they hop out and bust doors
I ain’t goin’ back to jail, nigga that’s what I flush for
My money or my glock, who do I trust more?
I don’t know, it’s probably the one that I touch more
Guess it’s the green, ’cause paper motivate niggaz
And my Rolex racist ’cause it hate niggaz
I used to only sell 8’s like that Laker nigga
Now I’m movin’ 24’s like I play at the Staples Center
You might miss The Game so nigga don’t blink
My Phantom stand out like Frank Lucas’ mink
So go ahead and think, like Frank Lucas think
Somebody’ll find your brains on the fuckin’ kitchen sink about

[Chorus]
Dead presidents, big paper (“for the money”)
Benjamins, skyscrapers, my niggaz get (“money”)
My bitches get (“money”) like the strippers get
From the block to the club I’ll make it rain (“money”)
In California niggaz die (“for the money”)
From the South to New York, them bullets fly for the (“money”)
Don’t stop gettin’ (“money”) It don’t matter where you from
If you hustle motherfucker keep gettin’ that (“money”)

[The Game]
I get it, that Baby and Slim, Cash Money
All the jewelry on your whole crew, that’s my tax money
That Pablo Escobar crack money
That LeBron first Nike contract money
That make it rain, all my niggaz throw a stack money
Stack it to the ceilin’ then call it Shaq money
That walk in the club, straight to the back money
Flavor of Love, Deelishis sittin’ on my lap money
That rap money, niggaz get clapped money
Air Force One’s don’t bend when I trap money
Ooooh, I’m Rich like Porter
Havin’ Alpo nightmares whippin’ that water
Like McDonald’s, I was flippin’ them orders
In that ’02 Porche truck, whizzin’ through borders
I was through flippin’ quarters when I made my first mill’
I’m about a dollar, 50 Cent ain’t real?

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[Chorus]
Dead presidents, big paper (“for the money”)
Benjamins, skyscrapers, my niggaz get (“money”)
My bitches get (“money”) like the strippers get
From the block to the club I’ll make it rain (“money”)
In California niggaz die (“for the money”)
From the South to New York, them bullets fly for the (“money”)
Don’t stop gettin’ (“money”) It don’t matter where you from
If you hustle motherfucker keep gettin’ that (“money”)

[The Game]
Somebody tell Snoop to pop open them briefcases
Order that Patron, tell ’em we want three cases
Fuck a black car, you see these green faces?
Look at my chest, now you seen fakers
Treat my money like the Cristal that we wastin’
Cause I’m a money machine, I could re-make it
You a fool thinkin’ that Freddy could see Jason
I’ve been iced out, like who the fuck need Jacob
The doc told me to be patient, but I want
money like Dwight Howard, next time he a free agent
I’m tryin’ to make enough money so I could feed Asia
Have Asians in the kitchen cookin’ in Louis V. aprons
Word to Martha Stewart, if I could park a Buick
Then I could flip a Brink’s truck, I got the heart to do it
Ball like the nigga Tony Parker do it
Speak no engles but dinero I talk it fluent

[Chorus]
Dead presidents, big paper (“for the money”)
Benjamins, skyscrapers, my niggaz get (“money”)
My bitches get (“money”) like the strippers get
From the block to the club I’ll make it rain (“money”)
In California niggaz die (“for the money”)
From the South to New York, them bullets fly for the (“money”)
Don’t stop gettin’ (“money”) It don’t matter where you from
If you hustle motherfucker keep gettin’ that (“money”)

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The Game

Cali Sunshine – The Game

[Chorus]
California sunshine, in the summer time [4x]

Last year, Jazze Phe got stuck up inside the grand lux,
Most recent was 50 in Angola, that’s what’s up,
Any rapper could touched, any bitch could get fucked,
Under the California sun, impalas and big trucks,
They say Suge got knocked out, but don’t play that nigga cheap,
Cuz you’re body might wash up by the courts at Venice Beach,
Ain’t shit sweet but my Swisher, ain’t shit buzzin but my liquor,
Cali chickens got to the 80’s strip and come back a little thicker,
With more ass then Delicious, that’s my Flavor of Love,
We make it rain like Rainman, when he play with the glove,
I’m the king to you pawn niggas, punisher, spawn, niggas,
Playin in green, Paul Pierce to you Lebron niggas,
We them barbeque, front and back lawn niggas,
Summer Jam, throw your ass offstage Akon niggas,
We drink Kool Aid with the ice on your arm nigga,
Take that Champion hoody off in the California sunshine

[Chorus]

I’m in my drop top Phantom, down Wilshire boulevard,
We can’t find Biggies’ killers so we gave Diddy a star,
And I’m by far, Hollywood boulevard,
but I’m from a boulevard that tought ya’ll to shoot out of moving cars,
Remember, New Jersey driver’s like a East Coast menace,
And Belly was like the sequel without O-Dogg in it,
Give me a New York minute,
to show you Cali got more dead bodies then the Yankees got New York pennants,
Cuz we Dodgers and Impalas with the windows tinted,
I duck shots where Venus and Sarena used to play tennis,
And they never came back, like throwin a boomerang flat,
See me, I’m posted like a Cincinatti pitcher in the same hat,
It’s like a scene from a movie, when the screen fade black,
Niggas roll up on you, Now you stuck in that Harold and Cane trap,
If you slippin in Hollywood, and you get your chain snatched,
I know some niggas that know some niggas, Ill get your chain back.

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[Chorus]

Niggas already know who had the marijuana first,
We birthed haze and sour diesel, I was there when the water burst,
Hell nah we don’t surf, We half way go to church,
Tell you the truth, shiit, right now I’m in the fuckin hearse,
And it ain’t my night to get buried in the dirt
But it is your day to get buried by a verse,
It’ll be another ten years before you see an MC Ren here,
Where he been, I been there, that Lambo, I’m in there,
Hotter then the beginning of my career with 50, Dre and Em there,
Top off the Murcialago like Victoria’s Secret swim swear,
So listen, I’m so sincere, bout to work out like gym wear,
Murder MTV’s top ten, and tat my face with 10 tears,
That’s 10 funerals, 10 caskets,
10 3-piece Ralph Lauren suits, 10 motorbikes stopping traffic,
And 10 reasons why I got California hotter than acid,
Don’t you ever, ever leave me out of the top 10 you fuckin’ bastards
Blaow.

[Chorus]

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