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​Lookin' At You

This song is by The Game and appears on the album Doctor's Advocate (2006).

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

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

(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

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

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