Bouncin' Down The Strezeet

Yeah, Ice-T up in here, boy (Westside Niggaz)

Got my man Hot Dolla in the house, you know what I'm saying? (Westside, you know)

J-E-L, Rhyme Poetic Mafia up in here (Westside Niggaz)

Got Mr. Wesside in the place, you know what I'm saying? (Westside Niggaz)

Straight lace hustlers in the house

Yo Wesside, tell them how you do it, baby

Drinking up my Alpine

18-Inch bolt gauge bumping up jealous niggaz on my mind

It's my cash, my dollars, my paper

Just hit the lick, now, suckers wanna pull capers

What you think all my gats is for?

But ain't got no Rottweilers by the door

Bring your ass on in friend, then, counting my currency

Til call you sleep out of the blue twenty

Mac 90s, mind on my money

Still trying to fuck that bitch in Aqua

Out the bally cause I used to love ya

My bunny, is acting, funny, but fuck you bitch

Bouncing on these bitches, like eighteen switches

Side to side, front, three-wheel motion

Sedan De Ville sliding like lotion

Out of the Central (WHAT?!)

Upping to the hills with my kinfolks

Niggaz gonna be bouncing down the Street-zy

To this beat-zy, with the heat-zy, another deize-y

With your dough money, dose money, money rose on your dome

Moving on Chrome, and gold (Ds)

Nigga, I can't loose, just I ooze up and down these tracks

Cause the booth has got me feeling like the rat pack

In the killing to the ceiling with my height, off lights with no direction

From the rep like Comp-town section, a fear from my complexion

A fear from my erection, so they put me in corrections

It's life in effect, the fact I'm trapped in my existence

But even from my thousand yard distance

I'm seeing right through you with that mad dog glance

With that gangster's dance

So we can sag them pants, come take a chance

Would you like to dance in the infra-red drip like?.. (*Gun Shots*)

?? And 100 Spokes and don't make me loke

It's Hots-to-the-Dolla baby, ain't no joke

You plus my bank is poke, so I got to make a statement

I'm on my third strike, I'm rolling on the bike

I'm asking all you niggaz what that Comp-town like?

Before I gots to pull a fire for that N.Y.

Man, the Ese's rolling shit, I know what's up

I'm cold, heading back streets and ripping gangster cuts

Ohh yes; I floss daily, fuck our represent

And straight show, keeps my Ds on a hot cement

And.. I'll tell your dealer Cali' ain't no joke

Cause that smog on the West Coast is Indo smoke

So don't slip for a second, and get played like a whore

Ohh, don't make me bust in Pac-sive mode

I enroll mad legal making mass appeal

And you can ask anybody if my clique pack steel

Cause no matter where I flow, brothers pay the cost

And that's why they're gonna tell you that I can't be toast

Man, you didn't know my music, didn't know my skin

But you can win, listen to the the Mexicans

So don't talk about me, cause I'll work you son

But the crazy thing about it, I won't be needing my guns

Busters can't even see the Ice, as I flex this

You couldn't afford the Benz®, so you had to buy the Lexus®

But how them pillars over fans that I ride on the weekend

Lock me up, watch my custom drive, shaft vans square dumps in my trunk

Lick it once, watch my front end fly, as I skate on by

On them five twenties money, Titanium Scrape Plate

Rock the ass like you blocked up, Show Nuff

I got the cute trunk, hooked up with four pumps in the middle

Hit your corner looking like a damn tricycle

Hit the pancake, let the butter late on the drown

And get on out the ride and clown

With my homies on the corner in South Central, California

You couldn't get more real if you wanna

I'm gonna let you know that when I froze, just don't trip on gauze

Front seat for my homies, back seat for the whores