Ant Banks - West Riden lyrics

Intro: Yeah, Young jock up in this beezee Claiming and representing that S-P geezee sh** Putting it down with my n***a the big bad a** Spice 1 and King T High siding and westside riding Got my n***a from the feezee up in this beezee We doing big thangs in the nine seezee Kicking b**hes in the booty and pointing out their duty Yeah any motherf**er that wanna try us knows where to find us Motherf**er King Tee: This sh** couldn't get no harder n***as 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 n***as 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 f*ggotty 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 n***as couldn't believe the Rolex was all mine Spice-1: Yeah divine n***as the lexxy shine and the fetty Motherf**ers ain't ready, see they won't hold their heads steady when we come with the fifty caliber Desert Eagle Feeling you motherf**ers over slugs equal You these diamonds on the pinky, Rolex up on the wrist Next n***a run up on me for my pieces is catching whole clips No s**er 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, n***as 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 n***a's fetty Chorus: Real k**ers on the westside don't be fooled We in the sun where the kids wear their vests to school Soft n***as don't survive they be taking a dive (West Side) Refuse to leave them player haters alive Real k**ers on the westside don't be fooled We out west where the kids wear their vests to school Soft n***as 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 n***as 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 a** 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 f** at who's tripping Catch a n***a at the airport slipping Huh, what a shame send his a** back from where it came in a casket California love turned drastic I'm come G'd up, n***as 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 Pa**ing 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 motherf**er that will leave you split Tore back a** out bringing you your hat Flat broke, talking about f** that n***a 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 a** like punk b**hes in ditches The gangsterism resulting in murderism Bailing up in your hooptie at the gas station You facing the k**er for real-a punk a** n***a Where the scrilla Jacking you for your sh**, taking your ends pull off my mask Hitting the corner, hopping up in my Benz with your cash Mobbing I mash out, you a** out Left you shot up in your seven-trey gla**house 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