Lookin' At You Lyrics - Doctor's Advocate - Game

(Hook) 

Walkin down the street in my All-Stars 

In my khaki suit, doin' what I do 

Walkin down the street, smokin chronic 

In my black lokes, lookin at you 

(Verse 1) 

Guess who's back on the West Coast tracks 

It's the mothafuckin messiah of gangsta rap 

Still dippin in 64's, still puffin on the same chronic 

Haters mad 'cause I still got it 

I never fall off even without the Doc 

You niggas sellin your soul tryin to stay on top 

Bitch nigga, check your Kotex 

You niggas ain't movin shit like the hand on a fake-ass rolex 

I'm five million sold 

The cover of my last album the only time you see me sittin on gold 

I'm the most anticipated, most celebrated, 

Most loved, and the mothafuckin most hated, 

Keep rollin like gold daytons 

You niggas got the game fucked up like Hennessey with a coke chaser 

You gotta deal with me, I'm the west coast savior 

Niggas think of me every time they 64 scrape 

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(Some dude) 

What do you call a nigga who's overbearing, belligerent, foul, defiant and very disrespectful? 

You call that nigga the +Doctor's Advocate+ 

He's a reflection of Dr. Dre in his heyday in the worst way 

The five star surgeon general 

Took Jay-Z to the alchem lab and gave him a blood test that 

Came back G-A-M-E positive 

The niggas infected with the game virus 

Is over-rhetorical is so impeccable 

That niggas in the street call him sarge 

The young is down with violence 

In his heart he's retired 

It's not a game, it's just called a game 

There'll be no referees, no half-time reports 

When the game is over, the game is over 

You can't put a card in the machine and get three more men 

That's the end 

Photos 

(Hook) 

I be walkin' down the street in my All-Stars 

In my khaki suit, doin' what I do 

Walkin down the street smokin chronic 

In my black lokes, lookin' at you 

(Verse 2) 

I done been to hell and back, left for dead, 

You know who to thank for that 

Finished my second LP without a Dr. Dre track 

You can take my soul but can't take my plaques 

I'm the mothafuckin snare when it touch the beat 

I'm the 808 drum that got you movin your feet 

I'm the heir to the throne after the D-R-E 

Product of my environment 

You old ass niggas get ready for your early retirement 

Before I let hip-hop burn down I'll run in the buildin' like a fireman 

Who can outspit me when I'm high off sticky 

Throwin back Patron shots in some creased-up Dickies 

I'm DOC certified, Ice Cube lynch man, 

Snoop stamped me and the good Doc hand picked me, 

You still with me? 

Me and my mic can't be separated like Interscope and, ha ha... 

Oh, shit 

Some good ass mothafuckin weed 

That California sticky green 

This is the aftermath of the Aftermath... 

West Coast