[Chorus: Spice 1]
Kill em all (4X)
Cause everybody dyin on this motherfuckin album
Kill em all (4X)
Don't kick up in the dirt when I'm puttin in work
Kill em all (4X)
Cause everybody dyin on this motherfuckin album

[Verse 1: Spice 1]
I murda like this (this) I murda like that (that)
Pull an AK-47 up out my motherfuckin gangsta hat
Professional Columbian Necktie, barbwire
Strangler, over killa, dead fuckin body hanga
Peepin out the window with an A.K., pullin up on these copper
Helicoptas, squad cars, swat teams with choppers
They tellin me, "N***a, get the fuck out before ya die
If you surrender, we'll make sure that you quickly fry"
Should I kick open the door and go to war
Or should I slit my throat
Leave a pipe bomb and a fuck you note
Hallucinations of seein lynched bodies burnin
And all the po-po had faces like Mark Fuhrman
Tear gas through my glass window pane
They wanna put me back up in the nut house again
But I'm not goin back and take my prozac
They can keep the straight jacket
And leave a straight motherfuckin jack
A straight motherfuckin jack
A straight motherfuckin jack
[Chorus: Spice 1]
(Get the hell off my dick, I'm 1990-sick)
(1990-sick) *repeat 4X*

[Verse 2: Spice 1]
N***a's to pull the lynch, yayo case and stick
Marcia Clark screamin out murda, jumpin on OJ's dick
Motherfuckers still sufferin and healin
Some high technology white boys blew up the fuckin fed buildin
Crazy n***as still bangin and slangin crack
To the death, when the game put em up on they back
Motherfuckers catchin AIDS, from shootin hop
And phony n***as still get sprayed up on the block
And I ain't changed much, hell
I'm still smokin four or five motherfuckin choppers before it's twelve
Motherfuckers think they know me, but they don't know
I'm sellin first class tickets to the murda show
Don't wanna rap about no n***a, let's get it on
Bustin domes, buck shots through your rib bone
So all you n***as up in the magazines talkin shit
Get off my dick, I'm 1990-sick

[Chorus]

[Verse 3]
Mobbin' up out the cut ready to pow one
90-sick content of the album
If there's a kill for this, don't kill me, I'm coming with the fury
Playa haters getting hung up like a jury
So peep the game, I'm an old school G you know so well
The East Bay gangster, leaving caution tape faces pale
I bails, sathe full moon after 12 O'clock
Neighborhood watch scared to see who on the block
Just federallis, no popo come around here
Cause it's a different time, different game, different year
1990-sick
[Chorus]