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Intro: |
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Yeah, Young jock up in this beezee |
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Claiming and representing that S-P geezee shit |
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Putting it down with my nigga the big bad ass |
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Spice 1 and King T |
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High siding and westside riding |
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Got my nigga from the feezee up in this beezee |
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We doing big thangs in the nine seezee |
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Kicking bitches in the booty and pointing out their |
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duty |
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Yeah any motherfucker that wanna try us knows where |
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to find us |
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Motherfucker |
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King Tee: |
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This shit couldn't get no harder |
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Niggas is about to make me flip and commit manslaughter |
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All my dreams result to nightmares |
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So I walk around the hood strapped like I don't care |
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Truth or dare, I dare you to dis the west coast |
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The truth is them niggas will split your vest loc |
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With hollowpoint slugs, Crips and Bloods, we come deep |
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And roll in those Range Rover Jeeps |
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I was a made man at fifteen years |
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Cuz momma didn't raise no faggotty queer |
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I got paid fronting bad colors in the ninth grade |
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And on the westside is where I play |
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Straight sick, when my big uncle smoked dip |
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And grabbed his four four and took me with him on a |
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lick |
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And sure as the sun will come up and just shine |
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The niggas couldn't believe the Rolex was all mine |
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Spice-1: |
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Yeah divine niggas the lexxy shine and the fetty |
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Motherfuckers ain't ready, see they won't hold their |
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heads steady |
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when we come with the fifty caliber Desert Eagle |
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Feeling you motherfuckers over slugs equal |
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You these diamonds on the pinky, Rolex up on the wrist |
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Next nigga run up on me for my pieces is catching |
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whole clips |
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No sucker to the G-A in me |
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You fail to realize sometimes that I dump on G-P |
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Black Bossalini, King T-E-E and S-P-I |
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Born to die, westside riding staying high |
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187 proof a ma-a-mack ten shooter |
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Hope the ba-a-black talons go right through you |
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Been mobbing since a youngster, laced like hundred spokes |
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Ain't no rules in the game, niggas die and go for broke |
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He didn't no I was strapped, he didn't no I was ready |
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Blow a hole in his chest and take off with a nigga's fetty |
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Chorus: |
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Real killers on the westside don't be fooled |
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We in the sun where the kids wear their vests to school |
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Soft niggas don't survive they be taking a dive |
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(West Side) |
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Refuse to leave them player haters alive |
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Real killers on the westside don't be fooled |
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We out west where the kids wear their vests to school |
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Soft niggas don't survive they be taking a dive |
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(West Side) |
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Refuse to leave them player haters alive |
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King Tee: |
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Ah yes all the way to niggas in projects |
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That heard about the King that be strapped with two techs |
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Rolling in a Lex with them twenty inch chrome rims |
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Trying to find a ho for some trim |
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Laid back, smoking on the doja loc |
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At the light all the hos watch me cough and choke |
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Young player, can I take a ride with you |
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Hell no, can I trust my life with you |
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You look shady just left four ??? with four babies |
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And I can hear your ass screaming save me |
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Trick I'm in a zone guns, clips and chipped up phones |
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And Vibe tapes of old love songs straight gone |
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Dipping and giving a fuck at who's tripping |
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Catch a nigga at the airport slipping |
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Huh, what a shame send his ass back from where it |
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came in a casket |
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California love turned drastic |
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I'm come G'd up, niggas getting beat up |
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And I'm smoking all their dirt cess weed up |
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King T's G style got them hiding |
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Cuz this is what we call west riding |
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Spice-1: |
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See some of the haters try to fade you partner, but |
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ain't nobody coming close |
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I keep some scissors up in the cut, so give me ten feet at the most |
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Ain't no generic artificial, Realer than you can imagine |
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Passing out in the back of limos with a lap full of cash and mashing |
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Dreaming of mad tales, with waterfalls in swimming pools |
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I'm living the life of a rap star |
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Eighty thousand dollar cars, jaccuzzi rooms with minibars |
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Hit the casino dropping fetty on tables smoking Cuban cigars |
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You need to quit |
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Sprinkle a motherfucker that will leave you split |
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Tore back ass out bringing you your hat |
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Flat broke, talking about fuck that nigga S-P-I |
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But you can't go one on one Spice 1 because I'm born to die |
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I gets medieval up on they ass like punk bitches in ditches |
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The gangsterism resulting in murderism |
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Bailing up in your hooptie at the gas station |
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You facing the killer for real-a punk ass nigga |
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Where the scrilla |
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Jacking you for your shit, taking your ends pull off my mask |
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Hitting the corner, hopping up in my Benz with your cash |
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Mobbing I mash out, you ass out |
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Left you shot up in your seven-trey glasshouse |
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Chorus |
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West side Riding while we getting higher |
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That's the way we do it |
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West side Riding while we getting higher |
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That's the way we do it |
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On the Westside |