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compton's most wanted - no lyrics

[chorus]
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
’cause everybody dyin’ on this mothaf-ckin’ album
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
don’t kick up in the dirt when i’m puttin’ in work
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
k!ll ’em all
’cause everybody dyin’ on this mothaf-ckin’ album

i murda like this (this)
i murda like that (that)
pull an ak-47 up out my mothaf-ckin’ gangsta hat
professional, columbian, necktiea, barbwire
strangula, over k!lla, dead f-ckin’ body hanga
peepin’ out the window with an ak
pullin’ up on these coppas
helicoptas, squad cars, squat 10’s with choppas
they tellin’ me “n-gga, get the f-ck out before ya die
if you surrender, we’ll make sure that you quickly fry”
should i kick open the door and go to war
or should i stick my throat
leave a pipe bomb and a f-ck you note
hallucinations of seein’ lynched bodies burnin’
and all the po-po had faces like mark furhman
tear gas through my gl-ss window pane
they want to put me back up in the nut house again
but i’m not goin’ back and take my prozac
they can keep the straight jacket
and leave a straight mothaf-ckin’ jack
a straight mothaf-ckin’ jack
a straight mothaf-ckin’ jack

[chorus]
(get the h-ll off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick)
(1990-sick)
(1990-sick)
(1990-sick)
(1990-sick)

n-gga’s to pull the lynch
yayo case and stick
marcia clark screamin’ out murda, jumpin’ on oj’s d-ck
m-th-f-ckas still sufferin’ and healin’
some high tech knowledga white boys blew up the f-ckin’ fed buildin’
crazy n-ggas still bangin’ and slangin’ crack
to the death, when the game put ’em up on they back
m-th-f-ckas catchin’ names, from shootin’ high
and phony n-ggas still get sprayed up on the block
and i ain’t changed much, h-ll
i’m still smokin’ four or five mothaf-ckin’ choppas before it’s twelve
m-th-f-ckas think they know me, but they don’t know
i’m sellin’ first cl-ss tickets to the murda show
don’t want to rap about no n-gga, let’s get it on
bustin’ domes, buck shots through your rib bone
so all you n-ggas up in the magazines talkin’ sh-t
get off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick

[chorus]
muh-uh-mobbin’ up out the see you-uh-cut
with a ready to pow one
nuh-uh-90 sick content of the album
if there’s a cure for this, don’t cure me
i’m comin’ with the fury
playa hata’s gettin’ hung up like a jury
so peep the game from an old school g you know so well
the east bay gangsta, leaving caution tape and faces pale
i bails on a full moon like the 12 o clock
neighborhood watch scared to look and see who on the block
just fed a rally’s, no po-po come around here
’cause it’s a different time, different game, different year
1990 sick

[chorus: x2]
(get the h-ll off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick)
(1990-sick)
(1990-sick)
(1990-sick)
(1990-sick)

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