Discover the poetic beauty in ‘Lakers’ by Ab-Soul. This lyric breakdown takes you on a journey through the artist’s thoughts, emotions, and the story they aim to tell. From clever metaphors to evocative imagery, we delve into the nuances that make this song a lyrical masterpiece. Whether you’re a fan of Ab-Soul or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
Nigga, f*ck it, 77 Cutlass
I move my ass to Cali with my Indiana bucket
I need to slap a wet one on the frame, a little rusty
They call my shit a scraper and the beta bitches love it
And I’m choking on some Cali good
Been want to cruise on Crenshaw
Since a little nigga watching Boyz n in the Hood
Since Ricky got killed, copping that corn meal
Before the palm trees, pussy and the recording years
I was overdue for a visit
A valley bitch with family in the Chi gave me digits
The 818, the sex was great, perfect the art of fornication
Put a bitch out the car for a bar, your Cali conversation
All my hoes from way back want me to be chilling where they at
G.I. until I die, but bitch L.A. is where I lay at
My children gon’ be raised at where they gon’ place my grave at
Since Magic bought the team, he brought new meaning to that L.A. hat
Shout out to the blocks
Inglewood, Compton, South Central to Watts
My home, my home L.A. I ride for you
When I am gone just know that I owe you
My home, my home L.A. I ride for you
When I am gone just know that I owe you
I’m on my way to LAX from JFK, it’s a great day
I mean I love New York, but of course
I live out there so don’t go there, you heard it before
Ironic my uncle had the king of music on Crenshaw
Cause now I’m the king to music to all y’all
California love, California dreaming
I’ve seen lost angels, I even found demons
Where you learn to survive and keep your head high
Hit the weed clinic ‘fore sativa get your head high
We ain’t in Kansas City, but you’ll find a TEC-9
And if that tech jammed you better have a toast too
F*ck that, this what we gon’ toast to
Everybody that ain’t die before 21 like we was s’posed to
For the mail I’m going postal
I heard the baddest females on pacific coastal
If it means anything, I’m so L.A. my dad died on King, nigga
My home, my home L.A. I ride for you
When I am gone just know that I owe you
My home, my home L.A. I ride for you
When I am gone just know that I owe you
Yeah, went from a condo ’til sleeping on my nigga couch
Popping sedatives, negatives in my bank account
Too much pride to let this pussy industry play me out
Preparing that broken dream, that’s what L.A. about
Shout to Cali Bud, my Westcoast plug
Brother from another mother, he showed that Westcoast love
Nigga, me and Killa Caz was pulling them stick-ups, cuz
Bending blocks with my nigga Box smoking the whip up Blood
Gots to keep it true when I maneuver
I got all kind of homies, Harlems, Avalons and Hoovers
My little homie from Families, he keep a team of shooters
My 60 niggas stay Rolling, my Eight Trey niggas moving
Been 20 years since the riots
L.A. nigga keep it thorough, f*ck keeping quiet
Bitch it’s on in this war zone where we reside
As I begin let my sins wash away with the tides
Who the f*ck I’m kidding? I done tried everything but dying
Flirting with other places, but this Cali bitch stay on my mind
My home, my home L.A. I ride for you
When I am gone just know that I owe you
My home, my home L.A. I ride for you
When I am gone just know that I owe you