We're far from good, not good from far
Ninety miles per hour down Compton Boulevard
With the top down, screamin', "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 thirty keys 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 gettin' fucked, uh
You ain't heard nothin' harder since Daddy Kane
Take it vain, Vicodins couldn't ease the pain
Lightning 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 travelin' 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 homocide'll remind me

That Compton Crip niggas ain't nothin' to fuck with
Bompton Piru's ain't nothing to fuck with
Compton eses ain't nothin' to fuck with
But they fuck with me, and bitch, I love it
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-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 motherfuckers that life is full of hydraulics
Up and down, get a six-four, better know how to drive it
I'm drivin' on E with no license or registration
Heart racin', racing past Johnny because he's racist
1987, the children of Ronald Reagan
Rake the leaves off your front porch with a machine blow torch (I'm really out here, my nigga)
He blowin' on stress, hopin' to ease the stress (like, really out here though)
He coppin' some blow hopin' that it can stretch
New born massacre, hoppin' out the passenger
With calendars 'cause your date comin'
Run 'em down and then he gun 'em down
I'm hopin' that you fast enough
Even the legs of Michael Johnson don't mean nothin' because

That Compton Crip niggas ain't nothin' to fuck with
Bompton Piru's ain't nothing to fuck with
Compton eses ain't nothin' to fuck with
But they fuck with me, and bitch, I love it
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woop
Whoopty-whoop, woopty-woop-woopty-woop-woop
(California Dungeons)

Can't detour when you 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 yopper, and I tore they ass up)
Can't detour when you 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

Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa

We really out here, my nigga
You niggas don't understand, my nigga
I'm off a pill and Rémy Red, my nigga
Trippin', my nigga

Copyright: Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Dante Perkins, Donte Perkins, Kendrick Lamar