West Riden

[Featuring Spice-1, King Tee]

Intro:

Yeah, Young jock up in this beezee

Claiming and representing that S-P geezee shit

Putting it down with my nigga the big bad ass

Spice 1 and King T

High siding and westside riding

Got my nigga from the feezee up in this beezee

We doing big thangs in the nine seezee

Kicking bitches in the booty and pointing out their

duty

Yeah any motherfucker that wanna try us knows where

to find us

Motherfucker

King Tee:

This shit couldn't get no harder

Niggas is about to make me flip and commit manslaughter

All my dreams result to nightmares

So I walk around the hood strapped like I don't care

Truth or dare, I dare you to dis the west coast

The truth is them niggas will split your vest loc

With hollowpoint slugs, Crips and Bloods, we come deep

And roll in those Range Rover Jeeps

I was a made man at fifteen years

Cuz momma didn't raise no faggotty queer

I got paid fronting bad colors in the ninth grade

And on the westside is where I play

Straight sick, when my big uncle smoked dip

And grabbed his four four and took me with him on a

lick

And sure as the sun will come up and just shine

The niggas couldn't believe the Rolex was all mine

Spice-1:

Yeah divine niggas the lexxy shine and the fetty

Motherfuckers ain't ready, see they won't hold their

heads steady

when we come with the fifty caliber Desert Eagle

Feeling you motherfuckers over slugs equal

You these diamonds on the pinky, Rolex up on the wrist

Next nigga run up on me for my pieces is catching

whole clips

No sucker to the G-A in me

You fail to realize sometimes that I dump on G-P

Black Bossalini, King T-E-E and S-P-I

Born to die, westside riding staying high

187 proof a ma-a-mack ten shooter

Hope the ba-a-black talons go right through you

Been mobbing since a youngster, laced like hundred spokes

Ain't no rules in the game, niggas die and go for broke

He didn't no I was strapped, he didn't no I was ready

Blow a hole in his chest and take off with a nigga's fetty

Chorus:

Real killers on the westside don't be fooled

We in the sun where the kids wear their vests to school

Soft niggas don't survive they be taking a dive

(West Side)

Refuse to leave them player haters alive

Real killers on the westside don't be fooled

We out west where the kids wear their vests to school

Soft niggas don't survive they be taking a dive

(West Side)

Refuse to leave them player haters alive

King Tee:

Ah yes all the way to niggas in projects

That heard about the King that be strapped with two techs

Rolling in a Lex with them twenty inch chrome rims

Trying to find a ho for some trim

Laid back, smoking on the doja loc

At the light all the hos watch me cough and choke

Young player, can I take a ride with you

Hell no, can I trust my life with you

You look shady just left four ??? with four babies

And I can hear your ass screaming save me

Trick I'm in a zone guns, clips and chipped up phones

And Vibe tapes of old love songs straight gone

Dipping and giving a fuck at who's tripping

Catch a nigga at the airport slipping

Huh, what a shame send his ass back from where it

came in a casket

California love turned drastic

I'm come G'd up, niggas getting beat up

And I'm smoking all their dirt cess weed up

King T's G style got them hiding

Cuz this is what we call west riding

Spice-1:

See some of the haters try to fade you partner, but

ain't nobody coming close

I keep some scissors up in the cut, so give me ten feet at the most

Ain't no generic artificial, Realer than you can imagine

Passing out in the back of limos with a lap full of cash and mashing

Dreaming of mad tales, with waterfalls in swimming pools

I'm living the life of a rap star

Eighty thousand dollar cars, jaccuzzi rooms with minibars

Hit the casino dropping fetty on tables smoking Cuban cigars

You need to quit

Sprinkle a motherfucker that will leave you split

Tore back ass out bringing you your hat

Flat broke, talking about fuck that nigga S-P-I

But you can't go one on one Spice 1 because I'm born to die

I gets medieval up on they ass like punk bitches in ditches

The gangsterism resulting in murderism

Bailing up in your hooptie at the gas station

You facing the killer for real-a punk ass nigga

Where the scrilla

Jacking you for your shit, taking your ends pull off my mask

Hitting the corner, hopping up in my Benz with your cash

Mobbing I mash out, you ass out

Left you shot up in your seven-trey glasshouse

Chorus

West side Riding while we getting higher

That's the way we do it

West side Riding while we getting higher

That's the way we do it

On the Westside