The official representative, L-A-C.
This is phrophecy manifested by X to the Z.
Victory strike a b-boy stance in khaki pants;
Never get along like red and black ants; advance.
When you're staring and this concrete that move like liquid,
Like a nigga withouth legs, I ain't tryin' to kick it.
Too much to finish, a menace, without enough time.
My mind only give punchline; you probably thinkin' of the wrong kind,
'Cause if it jokes, nigga know
The kind that drop on your eyes, your ears, your nose, and your throat.
I promote self-defense not dollars and cents.
Kick it with scholars and pimps; you just the last part over the fence;
Assed out in the open, while you was hopin' that Xzibit was second rate,
But I refuse to make just another record in the crate;
I think not; got b-bops.
I bring it to your house, like pizza.

"Today we are on the streets of South Central Los Angeles; a fight for
survival"

"We have people that are conditioned not to expect to live past age thirty.
They no longer... Once they no longer care they're extremely dangerous."

Stand at attention; make sure you keep your piece clean.
When I release steam; police crime scenes to guillotines.
Hit and decapatate the bird case; featherweight.
Critical thinking, while you at water that concentrate.
Xzibit crash the gate, heavyweight, box 'em in.
Seal off the exits, then cut off your oxygen.
Xzibit run with a regimen of veterans.
I only like to come out, late night, like Dave Letterman.
Time for some medicine, 'cause niggas 'bout to get sick.
Callin' me a hater 'cause I don't ride dicks.
Read my lips: we got problems like Bloods and Crips.
Love the sound of clips when I know my shit.
Chamber Music; this is for the ones with stone-face,
That catch you at the right time in the wrong place.
We unsafe; one-fifty-one with no chase and no ice.
Take away your life, like three strikes.

Yeah, come on, Chamber Music.

So now Xzibit got a little money; I think its funny
How motherfuckers think I'm supposed to share like Sonny.
Clarify; you don't work you don't eat; I repeat:
You don't eat you get weak; catch a fragile physique.
Accomplish more in one day than you can do in a week.
The X-Man, Wolverine; one swing to make the cut clean,
And the wrong things manifested in flesh.
Fuck the game; I take the test, graduate, pass to the S-Class.
Catch a roadrash; all you smell is hash.
Chronic mix; bumpin' the liks
And dick you like a Hebron fix.
Bear-arm from here to a hundred-tweny meters;
Get black-balled; modern day Lee Harvey Oswald.
The assassin; brother who came blastin'.
Take it without askin'; rappers is all fashion.
Xzibit keep mashing through.
Got any last words? I got two.
Drive up on you like that!

Once again, Chamber Music, what, what, yeah, what the deal? It's Xzibit.

Get on the ground, get on the ground! Hands on the back of your head, Don'
Move, Don't Move! Get on the ground!

Writer : ANTHONY WHEATON, ALVIN JOINER
Copyright : Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group