Survival 1st 歌词
| 歌曲 | Survival 1st |
| 歌手 | C-BO |
| 专辑 | One Life 2 Live |
| 下载 | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : C BO, Lunasicc, Marvaless | |
| (feat. Lunasice, Marvaless) | |
| [chorus] | |
| California's the state, where punk niggas die. | |
| First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise. | |
| So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes. | |
| It's just some ballin'-ass niggas down to die for the West Side. | |
| California's the state, where all bustas die. | |
| First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise. | |
| So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes. | |
| It's just some ballin'-ass niggas down to die for the West Side. | |
| [Verse 1: C-Bo] | |
| It could be the napalm, droppin' non stop bombs, | |
| Armed like vietnam, dominatin' like King Kong. | |
| Lyrical madness, step up, take up, and start blastin'. | |
| Wicked as Stephen King when my mental and vocal clashes. | |
| Syrran wrap, like a boa constrictor, wrappin' ya. | |
| Up from your feet to your neck, nigga, attackin' ya. | |
| These 4-5 hollow tips will have you backin' up. | |
| I only do my dirt at night like dracula. | |
| [Verse 2: Lunasice] | |
| I'm wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead, | |
| Cuz I done spread through their territory like the HIV. | |
| Sun down spots, suckas swallow glocks. | |
| If they know by these rocks I'm pushin' for the blocks. | |
| Every corner you past, that show will run him up in his ass. | |
| Gettin' the cash, while Mr. Bad puts down the smash. | |
| I dumps quick, my clique be so thick, | |
| With hi-tech mob shit, crooked as Soviet. | |
| [chorus] | |
| [Verse 3: C-Bo] | |
| The house on the water, independent shippin' quarters, | |
| Movin' tapes like K across every border. | |
| Takin' over your brain, causin' addiction like 'caine, | |
| More deadly than a grand shot of Heroine in the vein. | |
| Inflict pain, on any nigga that step in my range. | |
| Retalliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain. | |
| So remain calm, this shit is C-4 bomb, | |
| Set trip off your mother****in' city like 'Nam. | |
| Best recognize, step up and check eyes. | |
| Ain't to many busta-ass niggas from the West Side. | |
| I do or die for mine, livin' life like I'm blind. | |
| Solo on a flame line, dumpin' hollow tip 9's. | |
| [Verse 4: Marvaless] | |
| Survival first, ask questions later. | |
| Movin' patterns on your bitch-ass cuz I heard that you was a hater. Oh who | |
| Can save ya? | |
| Defeated your purpose, now you caught up in some deep shit. | |
| Who got the deepest murder clique, that's some would sick. | |
| This game is way past wicked. Still I commence to kick it. | |
| West side niggas stackin' meal tickets. | |
| Surpassin' weak bitches, evadin' snitches, and sayin' bomb. | |
| Killafornia style when we ride droppin' bombs. | |
| [Verse 5: C-Bo] | |
| Palay Palay, Tommy Hilfiger cold, can I? | |
| Polo, Jabo, Guess, Khakis and Levis. | |
| Ballers is what they call us, too much for the ATL. | |
| Lexus, Benz, Beemer, Vet, VIP, 112. | |
| Might catch me at the Platinum, sippin' on some Hen, rolex down, | |
| Ride ST 400 Lex through the town. | |
| Clown, and you'll catch a hot metal tab up to the chest. | |
| Don't make me kill a nigga out east and head West Side. | |
| Till I die, reason why, I stay high, | |
| To maintain my composure and attitude when I ride. | |
| Don' push me, I'm too close to the edge | |
| Might take one to the head. | |
| [chorus x2] | |
| [Verse 6: C-Bo] | |
| It's the season of the sickness, marks on my shitlist. | |
| Comin' up out the psychadelic bui'ness, don't sit in it. | |
| When I gets to bustin', I let loose like a Mac-10. | |
| I'm born and raised a hustler, got love for my family, **** friends. | |
| Never been disgusted, but I just like love it, | |
| Wit my streetsweeper, put hoes in your bucket. | |
| Man, I just say **** it, I can't live with society. | |
| Now, how many niggas in yo clique wanna ride on me? | |
| [chorus to end] |
| zuo ci : C BO, Lunasicc, Marvaless | |
| feat. Lunasice, Marvaless | |
| chorus | |
| California' s the state, where punk niggas die. | |
| First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise. | |
| So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes. | |
| It' s just some ballin' ass niggas down to die for the West Side. | |
| California' s the state, where all bustas die. | |
| First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise. | |
| So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes. | |
| It' s just some ballin' ass niggas down to die for the West Side. | |
| Verse 1: CBo | |
| It could be the napalm, droppin' non stop bombs, | |
| Armed like vietnam, dominatin' like King Kong. | |
| Lyrical madness, step up, take up, and start blastin'. | |
| Wicked as Stephen King when my mental and vocal clashes. | |
| Syrran wrap, like a boa constrictor, wrappin' ya. | |
| Up from your feet to your neck, nigga, attackin' ya. | |
| These 45 hollow tips will have you backin' up. | |
| I only do my dirt at night like dracula. | |
| Verse 2: Lunasice | |
| I' m wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead, | |
| Cuz I done spread through their territory like the HIV. | |
| Sun down spots, suckas swallow glocks. | |
| If they know by these rocks I' m pushin' for the blocks. | |
| Every corner you past, that show will run him up in his ass. | |
| Gettin' the cash, while Mr. Bad puts down the smash. | |
| I dumps quick, my clique be so thick, | |
| With hitech mob shit, crooked as Soviet. | |
| chorus | |
| Verse 3: CBo | |
| The house on the water, independent shippin' quarters, | |
| Movin' tapes like K across every border. | |
| Takin' over your brain, causin' addiction like ' caine, | |
| More deadly than a grand shot of Heroine in the vein. | |
| Inflict pain, on any nigga that step in my range. | |
| Retalliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain. | |
| So remain calm, this shit is C4 bomb, | |
| Set trip off your mother in' city like ' Nam. | |
| Best recognize, step up and check eyes. | |
| Ain' t to many bustaass niggas from the West Side. | |
| I do or die for mine, livin' life like I' m blind. | |
| Solo on a flame line, dumpin' hollow tip 9' s. | |
| Verse 4: Marvaless | |
| Survival first, ask questions later. | |
| Movin' patterns on your bitchass cuz I heard that you was a hater. Oh who | |
| Can save ya? | |
| Defeated your purpose, now you caught up in some deep shit. | |
| Who got the deepest murder clique, that' s some would sick. | |
| This game is way past wicked. Still I commence to kick it. | |
| West side niggas stackin' meal tickets. | |
| Surpassin' weak bitches, evadin' snitches, and sayin' bomb. | |
| Killafornia style when we ride droppin' bombs. | |
| Verse 5: CBo | |
| Palay Palay, Tommy Hilfiger cold, can I? | |
| Polo, Jabo, Guess, Khakis and Levis. | |
| Ballers is what they call us, too much for the ATL. | |
| Lexus, Benz, Beemer, Vet, VIP, 112. | |
| Might catch me at the Platinum, sippin' on some Hen, rolex down, | |
| Ride ST 400 Lex through the town. | |
| Clown, and you' ll catch a hot metal tab up to the chest. | |
| Don' t make me kill a nigga out east and head West Side. | |
| Till I die, reason why, I stay high, | |
| To maintain my composure and attitude when I ride. | |
| Don' push me, I' m too close to the edge | |
| Might take one to the head. | |
| chorus x2 | |
| Verse 6: CBo | |
| It' s the season of the sickness, marks on my shitlist. | |
| Comin' up out the psychadelic bui' ness, don' t sit in it. | |
| When I gets to bustin', I let loose like a Mac10. | |
| I' m born and raised a hustler, got love for my family, friends. | |
| Never been disgusted, but I just like love it, | |
| Wit my streetsweeper, put hoes in your bucket. | |
| Man, I just say it, I can' t live with society. | |
| Now, how many niggas in yo clique wanna ride on me? | |
| chorus to end |
| zuò cí : C BO, Lunasicc, Marvaless | |
| feat. Lunasice, Marvaless | |
| chorus | |
| California' s the state, where punk niggas die. | |
| First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise. | |
| So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes. | |
| It' s just some ballin' ass niggas down to die for the West Side. | |
| California' s the state, where all bustas die. | |
| First thought be survival every mornin' when I rise. | |
| So many murders and homicides in front of my eyes. | |
| It' s just some ballin' ass niggas down to die for the West Side. | |
| Verse 1: CBo | |
| It could be the napalm, droppin' non stop bombs, | |
| Armed like vietnam, dominatin' like King Kong. | |
| Lyrical madness, step up, take up, and start blastin'. | |
| Wicked as Stephen King when my mental and vocal clashes. | |
| Syrran wrap, like a boa constrictor, wrappin' ya. | |
| Up from your feet to your neck, nigga, attackin' ya. | |
| These 45 hollow tips will have you backin' up. | |
| I only do my dirt at night like dracula. | |
| Verse 2: Lunasice | |
| I' m wanted by the feds, these niggas, they want me dead, | |
| Cuz I done spread through their territory like the HIV. | |
| Sun down spots, suckas swallow glocks. | |
| If they know by these rocks I' m pushin' for the blocks. | |
| Every corner you past, that show will run him up in his ass. | |
| Gettin' the cash, while Mr. Bad puts down the smash. | |
| I dumps quick, my clique be so thick, | |
| With hitech mob shit, crooked as Soviet. | |
| chorus | |
| Verse 3: CBo | |
| The house on the water, independent shippin' quarters, | |
| Movin' tapes like K across every border. | |
| Takin' over your brain, causin' addiction like ' caine, | |
| More deadly than a grand shot of Heroine in the vein. | |
| Inflict pain, on any nigga that step in my range. | |
| Retalliate with hollow tips, blast, and splatter your brain. | |
| So remain calm, this shit is C4 bomb, | |
| Set trip off your mother in' city like ' Nam. | |
| Best recognize, step up and check eyes. | |
| Ain' t to many bustaass niggas from the West Side. | |
| I do or die for mine, livin' life like I' m blind. | |
| Solo on a flame line, dumpin' hollow tip 9' s. | |
| Verse 4: Marvaless | |
| Survival first, ask questions later. | |
| Movin' patterns on your bitchass cuz I heard that you was a hater. Oh who | |
| Can save ya? | |
| Defeated your purpose, now you caught up in some deep shit. | |
| Who got the deepest murder clique, that' s some would sick. | |
| This game is way past wicked. Still I commence to kick it. | |
| West side niggas stackin' meal tickets. | |
| Surpassin' weak bitches, evadin' snitches, and sayin' bomb. | |
| Killafornia style when we ride droppin' bombs. | |
| Verse 5: CBo | |
| Palay Palay, Tommy Hilfiger cold, can I? | |
| Polo, Jabo, Guess, Khakis and Levis. | |
| Ballers is what they call us, too much for the ATL. | |
| Lexus, Benz, Beemer, Vet, VIP, 112. | |
| Might catch me at the Platinum, sippin' on some Hen, rolex down, | |
| Ride ST 400 Lex through the town. | |
| Clown, and you' ll catch a hot metal tab up to the chest. | |
| Don' t make me kill a nigga out east and head West Side. | |
| Till I die, reason why, I stay high, | |
| To maintain my composure and attitude when I ride. | |
| Don' push me, I' m too close to the edge | |
| Might take one to the head. | |
| chorus x2 | |
| Verse 6: CBo | |
| It' s the season of the sickness, marks on my shitlist. | |
| Comin' up out the psychadelic bui' ness, don' t sit in it. | |
| When I gets to bustin', I let loose like a Mac10. | |
| I' m born and raised a hustler, got love for my family, friends. | |
| Never been disgusted, but I just like love it, | |
| Wit my streetsweeper, put hoes in your bucket. | |
| Man, I just say it, I can' t live with society. | |
| Now, how many niggas in yo clique wanna ride on me? | |
| chorus to end |
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