Compton on my mind - G-FUNK-ERA: Song Lyrics, Music Videos & Concerts

Compton on my mind

West Coast Rap

Compton on my mind was released on July 18, 2026 by G-FUNK-ERA as a part of the album Compton on my mind - Single

Song Details

AlbumCompton on my mind - Single

Release DateJuly 18, 2026

LabelG-FUNK-ERA

LanguageEnglish

Melodicness

Acousticness

Valence

Danceability

Energy

BPM94

OVERVIEW

LYRICS

Music Video

Music Video

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS

G-FUNK-ERA

Performer

Michele Giamblanco

Michele Giamblanco

Programming

COMPOSITION & LYRICS

Michele Giamblanco

Michele Giamblanco

Composer

PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING

G-FUNK-ERA

Producer

Lyrics

From the city where the trees hide the pain,

helicopters overhead playin’ deadly games.

Young locs on the corner with the work in they veins,

I chose the pen and the beat, turned my rage into flames.

Candy-coated Impala, switches hittin’ like crack,

bassline knockin’ so hard it make the blue rag flap.

Bitches in the backseat, ass fat, minds twisted,

pussy so wet it got the leather seats christened.

I roll with the real, no fuck-boys allowed,

talk heavy on the net but fold when it’s goin’ down.

Chronic smoke signals, let the whole block know,

Compton raised a killer that the industry can’t control.

[Hook]

Compton on my mind, gettin’ high as a kite…

She ridin’ with a G, feelin’ so right,

G-Funk in the air, we gon’ do this all night…”

[Rap Verse]

Mastermind with the rhyme scheme, multisyllabic assassin,

tongue twistin’ rapid fire, leave your whole style in a casket.

Used to slang on the ave where the streetlights flicker,

now the platinum plaques make these industry snitches bitter.

Hennessy in my system, vision blurred but the flow crisp,

every bar a .45, leave the competition Swiss.

She deepthroat the mic while I’m countin’ these bands,

thick lips, thicker hips, got the whole damn city in a trance.

Police sirens singin’ like a fucked up opera,

I laugh in they face ‘cause my lawyer’s a mobster.

From Section 8 to the section with the marble floors,

still the same loc, just with better cigars and whores.

[Hook]

Compton on my mind, gettin’ high as a kite…

She ridin’ with a G, feelin’ so right,

G-Funk in the air, we gon’ do this all night…”

[Rap Verse]

Rat tat tat flow, syllables stack like bricks in the trap,

metaphors murder mics, autopsy read “too much rap”.

Lowrider bouncin’ like it’s possessed by the funk gods,

Daytons spinnin’ circles while your bitch drop her thong off.

I penetrate the game like I penetrate her walls,

raw dog in the Benz while the system play my songs.

No dice, no concrete, just real shit and heat,

Compton in my blood, can’t be duplicated, G.

I’m the blueprint, the relapse, the chronic in your blunt,

every verse a sermon for the hood that raised a cunt.

So when you hear that 808 knockin’ through your trunk,

know it’s that West Coast — bow down to the funk.

Written by: Michele Giamblanco

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